o  r  r» 


fr 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arciiive 

in  2007  witii  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


littp://www.arcliive.org/details/brokensliaGklesOOmunsiala 


BROKEN 
SHACKLES 


BROKEN   SHACKLES 

BY 

JOHN  GORDON 

"Such  is  man  thai  it  is  reality  which  surprises  tw." 


x'^*'  ^n'o 


PHILADELPHIA 
DORRANCE  AND  COMPANY,  Inc. 


COPYKIGHT,  1920 
BY  DOKRANCE  AND  COMPANY,  INC. 


All  rights  reserved 


THE  FLntPTON  FKESS  •  NOKWOOD  •  MASS  ■  U  •  S  •  A 


THE  HEWERS  OP  WOOD 

AND 
THE  DRAWERS  OF  WATER 
WHEREVER  THEY  MAY  BE 


2135920 


This  is  a  Novel  of  Work; 

and  of  the  Wages  of  Work 


CONTENTS 

PACE 

Work 9 

Waste 71 

Refinement 117 

The  Market-place 173 

Last  Word 266 


broken  Shackles 


WORK 


A  ESTHETIC  souls  have  pried  in  vain  for  Slab 
ZA  Fork's  raison  d'etre.  The  strictly  business 
X  jL  sort,  however,  would  have  quickly  touched 
another  side,  seen  that  that  side  was  business,  and  pro- 
nounced it  good.  Slab  Fork  was  only  a  victim  of  cir- 
cumstances. Circumstances  were  forests,  great  counties 
of  them;  and  a  man  —  large  of  pocket,  small  of  soul. 
The  greater  victim  that  was  the  Fork  had  shortly  its 
trifling  victims:  men  and  women,  red  hands,  lean 
bodies,  tired  feet.  But  they  certainly  did  the 
business. 

The  town  sat  at  the  wide-branched  fork  of  a  moun- 
tain river  which  sprang  from  climbing  hills  and  trav- 
elled, swiftly  first,  then  at  an  amble,  to  the  sea. 
Looked  down  at  pleasantly  from  hilltops  all  about,  you 
would  have  claimed  it  "squatted"  there,  much  more 
than  sat,  for  Slab  Fork  was  the  most  one-storied, 
sprawled-out  sort  of  place  man  ever  saw.  It  began 
beside  the  River,  and  reached  back  in  a  struggling  sort 
of  way  to  culled-pine  forests.  Woods  choked  it  in 
and  hemmed  it  close,  throwing  advance-guards  of  trees 
even  to  the  Fork's  back  door. 


10  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

Great  Moosehead  River  was  a  stream  of  much 
vicissitude.  It  rose,  as  you  of  course  must  know,  near 
Canada.  It  started  life  as  though  it  purposed  going 
north,  then  like  some  pretty  wilful  woman  changed, 
and  shortly  found  its  way  on  south,  on  by  sharp  peaks 
and  quiet  valleys  of  the  Adirondacks.  Silver  at  even- 
ing, at  noon  it  held  the  color  of  the  sky;  and  the  woods 
that  lay  about  it  sighed  in  comfort  and  in  happiness, 
so  that  at  night  their  voices  joined  the  noise  of  little 
waves  and  polished  stones  to  make  the  quiet  places 
glad.  Its  valley  was  a  woods-set  gem  that  Heaven 
long  ago  had  hall-marked  beauty. 

There  occurred  a  speculator  and  a  mill  man,  two  in 
one,  and  the  timber  over-night  changed  hands.  A 
mill  screeched  its  siren  one  morning,  and  "Slab  Fork" 
was  come  to  stay.  Waste  wood  littered  the  forest  and 
town,  slabs  lay  scattered  about  like  water-lily  petals 
on  a  long-fouled  pond;  and  hilled-up  sawdust  blown 
around  the  mill  formed  drumlins  high  as  that  structure 
itself,  but  much  more  vast.  At  that  time  there  was  no 
insurance  on  the  mill  nor  on  the  homes  of  its  de- 
pendants. The  latter  were  not  worth  it,  but  the  former 
would  not  stand  it. 

The  stream  still  coursed  on  its  way.  But  about 
the  time  that  silver  was  well  started  on  its  struggle  to 
be  free,  and  folks  still  talked  of  the  "sixties"  as  though 
they  really  remembered,  the  river  had  begun  the  man- 
found  work.  Streams  are  not  meant  to  play,  and  in 
place  of  the  forest  came  shacks  upon  its  banks.  Dams 
stored  water  in  the  spring,  then  let  it  out  again; 
tumbled  log-lengths  stilled  the  noise  of  its  chatter;  and 
dust  from  the  mill  and  chips  from  the  work  spotted  the 
silver  and  dirtied  the  blue  that  sometime  had  lighted 
the  river.  At  night  a  deer  perhaps  might  jeopardize 
a  life  to  drink  its  water;   occasionally  when  snows 


WORK  11 

were  deep  and  foodstuffs  scarce  a  wolf  complained; 
but  gradually  the  wild  was  tamed,  the  land  was  mod- 
ernized. The  Man  looked  on,  and  saw  that  it  was  good. 
A  climbing,  struggling  logger's  road  reached  in  from  a 
village  fifteen  miles  below,  one  known  as  Mapleton  and 
built  there  advantageously  on  standard-gauge  which 
took  the  forest  products  of  the  hills,  and  carried  them 
away  to  other  centers  which  altered  them  to  dollars, 
factories,  homes.  When  there  were  any,  this  logging 
railroad  carried  passengers  upon  its  one  trip  up  and 
one  trip  down  each  day,  and  also  mail. 

Were  you  a  passenger  as  it  left  Mapleton  at  dawn 
one  morning,  riding  in  a  caboose  which  trailed  a  load 
of  fiats  or  logging  empties,  you  would  slowly  and  not 
without  some  jerks  and  bounds  have  passed  from  coun- 
try and  into  forest.  The  road  ran  Indian-fashion,  up, 
always  up,  on  the  sides  of  the  hills  and  the  ridges;  and 
the  tracks  below  and  above  you  looked  not  unlike  the 
shining  folds  of  some  huge,  fairy-tale  python  stretched 
out  in  the  warmth  of  the  sun.  At  tiie  journey's  be- 
ginning, and  well-nigh  throughout,  the  forests  passed 
were  only  faintly  reminiscent  of  the  first,  for  they  were 
"skinned."  Scrubby  stuff  now,  but  white  pine  nearly 
all  the  first  of  them  had  been,  the  pine  tiiat  housed 
and  warmed,  and  fortified  and  nourished  thirteen  puny 
Colonies  till  they  gave  birth  to  more.  Decaying  butts 
and  fire-scarred,  prostrate  trunks  of  trees,  disintegrat- 
ing now  and  huts  for  squirrels,  still  lay  about. 

When  the  logging  train  had  steamed  to  the  edge  of 
a  heavier  forest,  next  thundered  clear  across  the  long 
and  slender  bridge  which  spanned  the  Moosehead, 
Slab  Fork  and  your  journey's  end  were  reached. 

An  unpainted  shed  halted  the  train  for  passengers 
and  mail  before  the  empties  went  on  to  the  mill.  A 
shaky  carryall  took  both  to  the  Store.     There  was 


12  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

little  formality  with  driver  Pete.  He  simply  spat  on  the 
platform  boards,  picked  up  his  sack  and  grunted,  "Get 
in  if  you're  goin'." 

The  road  he  took  was  partly  built  of  mud,  the  rest 
of  sawdust.  Erratically  it  passed  by  divers  places 
which  revealed  themselves  as  dry-kilns,  lumber-sheds, 
and  yards.  There  were  acres  of  yards,  and  more  than  a 
few  of  the  others,  but  they  dropped  behind  as  the  road 
led  into  the  single  street  of  a  small,  dun-colored  town. 
It  was  the  residential  section,  "exclusive,"  as  a  cheerful 
stranger  said,  "since  one  man  owned  it  all."  He  owned 
the  houses,  owned  the  land;  he  owned  the  school,  he 
owned  the  church;  the  Post  Office  and  store,  the  rail- 
road and  saloon  —  were  his;  the  mills,  the  yards;  the 
homes,  and  most  of  those  that  in  them  dwelt.  Born 
in  his  huts,  baptized  in  his  church,  taught  in  his  school, 
reared  in  his  town,  worked  in  his  mill  or  sold  to  his 
saloon,  they  sank  at  last  in  two  poor  yards  of  ground  — 
also  his.    You  couldn't  cheat. 

In  days  bygone  the  owner  of  them  all,  one  Holden 
Gates  of  Mapleton,  had  sometimes  summered  here, 
with  many  guests,  and  then  the  town  perforce  had 
looked,  if  not  attractive,  at  least  presentable  and  liv- 
able. But  the  cottage  where  the  Moosehead  widened 
round  an  island  had  been  cobwebbed  many  a  year, 
and  thin-laid  paint  on  other  homes  had  slowly  peeled 
and  flaked  away. 

Beyond  dead  rows  of  squat  and  little-windowed 
shacks  rose  up  tall  mill-stacks  and  a  smudgy  burner, 
both  belching  smoke  and  showering  soot,  to  sky,  on 
neighborhood.  To  the  left  of  the  road  there  sagged  a 
building  little  larger  than  its  mates.  It  was  only 
Social  Hall.  The  road  gave  up  completely  at  the 
Store,  Pete  left  you  there  —  you  had  Slab  Fork. 

If  you  remained  so  long,  you  saw  at  noon  the  Fork 


WORK  13 

Hotel,  so  named,  Jake  Baker  once  averred,  because 
"you  used  your  knife."  There,  with  messes  of  others, 
the  traveller  was  served  with  a-plenty  of  "chuck." 
Chuck  was  generally  boiled,  after  the  fragrant  fashion 
of  the  place,  and  it  was  also  usually  bolted.  The 
Company  boasted  of  its  food.  They  had  a  right:  didn't 
it  cost  them  two  bits  per  man  per  day?  As  they  said, 
and  it  did  sound  -convincing,  "You  can't  work  men  on 
an  empty  belly."  Clerks  ate  one  side  in  a  sane 
atmosphere  of  commonplaces,  most  generally  climatic; 
lumberjacks  and  sweating  workmen  bolted  on  the  other 
amongst  a  gurgling  silence.  Talk  took  time;  they  ate. 
They  said  that  if  a  man  should  stumble  coming  in,  too 
late  to  reach  his  place,  he  might  as  well  resign  his 
mind  to  wait  another  meal.  These  chaps,  care-free 
of  wife  or  shack,  were  hungry.  To  a  great  extent 
they  were  self-helped.  Some  were  apparently  always 
there.  The  night-shift  rose  at  6  P.M.  to  breakfast  at 
their  fellows'  supper,  the  latter  falling  into  infested 
bunks  just  vacant.  Come  Sunday,  half  lay  on  the  floor. 
So  was  a  flop-house  of  the  second  class. 

Alwajrs  the  mill  gave  up  its  roar,  and  sent  out  prod- 
ucts for  the  New  World  that  was  building.  Stacks 
reddened  by  night  the  skies  they  darkened  by  day. 

It  could  be  wonderful,  this  game,  man  aiding  man  to 
build  a  great  America,  hand  touching  hand  and  heart 
kept  close  to  heart  to  make  a  common  land.  Was  it? 
Of  course  not  —  man  against  money;  hard  dollars 
stacked  against  long  days;  a  thousand  builders  to  one 
dweller  in  a  house  up-built  by  blistered  hands,  smashed 
heads,  and  broken  backs.  Its  utmost  story  felt  some 
sun  perhaps;  but  down  below,  deep  down,  was  damp- 
ness, rot. 

No  man  of  them  knew  more  anent  Slab  Fork,  its 
early,  clinging  forests,  than  old  "Admirable"  Rogers. 


14  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

No  man  would  have  told  you  less.  Mill  men,  while 
they  laughed,  respected  the  strange  old  fellow,  not  for 
what  he  was  or  had  been,  but  for  much  that  still 
survived.  According  to  the  Company  his  present  value 
was  a  doUar-and-a-half  per  day.  He  doubtless  earned 
it  in  the  box  factory  in  which  he  worked  as  able,  when 
neither  drunk  nor  sick. 

All,  forest  and  mill  and  yards,  were  as  tinder  wait- 
ing a  match.  A  fire  of  pine-wood  slabs  and  curly 
shavings  was  the  single  luxury  the  poorest  man  among 
them  could  afford.  And  they  were  poor.  They  had 
never  thought  of  ice,  except  in  winter,  nor  sweet  milk 
once  a  day  for  babies,  in  the  summer.  A  great  many 
of  the  babies  died,  but  there  were  always  plenty  more. 
Wind-leaking,  dirt-floored  houses  were  slow  to  take 
the  heat  in  winter,  quick  to  lose  it.  Fires  fell 
low;  sometimes  you  froze;  but  really,  not  often.  They 
were  so  poor  that  they  were  used  to  it.  Having  no 
contrasts,  they  came  in  time  to  know  it  well,  and  felt 
that  it  had  always  been.  Which  of  course  was  a  great 
help,  and  democratic. 

Families  were  greater  than  wages.  Education,  like 
the  teacher,  "stopped  around."  The  teacher,  maybe, 
stayed  a  week;  the  other  lasted  possibly  three  years- 
Attendance  was  one  to  a  family,  and  there  were  always 
smaller  ones  to  go  to  school.  Graduates,  aged  nine  or 
ten,  at  once  matriculated  in  the  box  factory. 

Employment  agencies  outside  had  ever  advertised 
the  "steady  work"  obtaining  at  the  Fork.  They  said 
little  of  wages,  and  knew  what  advertising  meant. 
Pay-days  occurred  by  months,  with  a  wait  of  two 
weeks  at  the  end  of  the  month;  that  is,  you  were  paid 
on  the  15  th  of  February  some  eighteen  cents  an  hour 
for  the  time  you  had  done  in  January,  with  deductions. 
Between  months,  though,  small  coin  of  the  Company 


WORK  15 

was  paid,  albeit  somewhat  at  a  discount.  It  passed 
current  at  the  Store  and  "Pop's."  They  drew  and  spent, 
and  charged  things.  Come  pay-day,  and  an  envelope 
which  only  held  a  notice.  You  had  simply  overdrawn, 
somehow  the  charge  accounts  ran  high. 

Raises  were  not  in  vogue,  much.  "Take  it  or  leave 
it,"  as  genial  Black- Jack  Larrabie,  the  mill  boss,  said, 
if  by  any  chance  your  envelope  held  money.  You  were 
grateful  there  wasn't  less,  for  it  was  really  inexpedient 
to  quit  if  owing  money  to  the  Store.  Someone  tried  it 
once,  and  got  to  Mapleton.  Mapleton  was  the  county 
seat.    The  courts  and  jails  were  at  Mapleton. 

But  credit  was  often  extended.  In  the  meantime 
you  worked.  Twelve-hour  days  they  were,  sometimes 
fourteen,  often  more,  for  these  are  the  times  of  a  real 
man's  work,  not  hindered  by  namby-pamby  wage- 
scales,  double-time,  time-and-a-half,  or  a  legalized 
limit  of  effort.  Personal  efficiency  was  at  a  discount; 
"work  and  we'll  do  the  thinking"  served  as  the  simple 
credo. 

And  M3n-a  Barnes,  who  taught  school  there  and  lived 
around,  was  pleased  to  say  at  trying  times,  "They 
have  no  poetry  in  their  souls." 

Yet  these  —  the  breathing,  moving,  actual  Slab 
Fork  —  did  not  in  the  least  disconcert  you,  being  only 
what  was  expected..  They  knew  what  sweat  smelled 
like,  and  how  it  felt  to  freeze,  numb  inches  at  a  time, 
in  winter.  The  sun  in  its  path  had  burned  their  faces, 
when  their  backs  were  wet;  the  winds  of  winter  chilled 
and  slowed  the  blood  that  in  the  torrid  days  had  almost 
burst  through  veins.  They  were  the  weak  left  hand  of 
wealth,  a  comic  economic  error. 

The  foreigners,  and  they  led,  wore  what  they  had, 
in  summer  for  less  discomfort,  in  winter  for  more  heat. 
Suits  of  the  old,  their  weaker  parts  removed,  wrapped 


16  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

up  the  young.  Style  was  unknown.  It  was  something, 
sometimes  anything,  to  wear.  The  native-born  thought 
some  of  neatness,  and  their  economies  would  cause 
the  pallid,  shame-faced  cheek  of  old  "threadbare  gen- 
tility" to  blush  for  opulence.  Close-cropped  women 
and  long-haired  men  were  they.  If  some  of  the  women 
were  not,  in  all  good  faiti  they  looked  it,  with 
fading  hair  pulled  back  from  vacuous  faces,  and 
bunched  in  small  hard  knots  that  capped  their  heads. 
As  for  their  men  it  was  one  more  economy,  for  in  the 
barber's  shop,  kept  open  nights  and  Sundays  by  a 
whilom  artist  who  meantime  bent  his  fingers  and  abili- 
ities  to  supplementary  employment  in  the  box  mill, 
it  cost  two  bits  to  have  the  hair  cut  on  the  head  and 
shaved  dish-like  above  the  neck.  Such  cuttings  were 
endured  when  they  might  no  longer  be  put  off. 

Yet  in  good  Slab  Fork  such  things  passed  by  un- 
noticed. No  man  was  manly  whose  face  and  head 
lacked  suitable  adornment,  and  apparently  their 
women  satisfied  them,  for  men  at  work  stopped  often  at 
their  tasks  to  gaze  upon  thin-breasted,  slab-shaped  fe- 
males that  passed  along  the  wooden  trams  whose  pulpy 
boards  formed  nearly  all  the  highways  and  the  by- 
ways of  the  town.  They  were  offering  no  disrespect, 
and  many  of  the  women  smiled  with  the  attention  they 
excited.  The  workers  of  the  woods  and  mill  were 
boisterous.  It  was  hard  to  plant  refinement  when  one's 
shoes  let  in  the  snow. 

Occasionally  some  met  in  Social  Hall.  On  Sundays  it 
was  "church"  —  one  religion  and  one  God.  Their 
church  was  sectless,  and  its  comfort  was  not  warm. 
God  lived  a  far  way  off.  The  meetings  of  the  week-day 
were  sufficiently  unsocial,  but  those  of  Sunday  chilled 
and  non-sectarian  throughout.  Social  democracy 
breeding  discussion,  they  added  little  to  that  barren  day 


WORK  17 

which  dangled  hope  all  through  a  breaking  week,  then 
by  its  awful  emptiness  made  man  and  woman  turn 
again  to  work.    It  was  a  one-man  Sabbath. 


II 

Two  raggedly  unkempt  urchins  struggled  over  a 
wooden  threshold,  and  with  their  feet  on  the  hard- 
packed  ground  outside  the  elder  turned  to  close  the 
door.  He  relinquished  for  the  moment  a  hand  of  the 
smaller  one,  till  then  held  in  his  own.  The  little  chap 
began  to  whimper. 

He  wept  as  if  he  knew  how,  as  though  he  had  before 
that  very  day,  and  over  the  small,  brown  face,  for  the 
most  part  wind-chapped  and  very  grimy,  appeared  two 
paler  places  where  that  day's  tears  an  hour  or  two  be- 
fore had  fissured  out  a  crooked  way.  New  drops 
paused  at  the  verge  of  his  eyes,  and  stopped  for  a 
bit  to  launch  themselves  from  reddened  lids  to  the 
parallel  lines  that  made  way  down  his  cheeks.  The 
other  lad  saw  it,  for  he  was  quick  to  place  a  small, 
weak  arm  across  the  shoulders  of  the  mournful  one. 

He,  now  the  man,  had  been  crying  too  not  many 
minutes  gone,  for  the  length  of  the  night  before  and 
through  the  day  that  followed  he  had  been  the  humbly 
feeling  host  of  a  commonplace,  insistent  eareache. 
Unable  to  remedy  the  ill  themselves,  in  time  his  older 
folk  had  tried  to  get  him  to  the  Doctor.  And  they  had, 
at  least  to  the  Doctor's  office.  A  pity  he  was  so  often 
away,  as  on  the  night  before,  and  still  that  morning. 
A  good  soul,  too,  but  he  wasn't  a  man-Doctor,  really, 
as  even  the  children  said,  for  this  good  Company  was 


18  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

wise  enough  to  hire  a  nurse  for  the  brute  animals 
that  aided  in  the  conduct  of  their  business,  and  added 
not  a  little  to  the  profits  of  their  old  and  very  meri- 
torious concern.  Teams  cost  real  money.  "Doc" 
Wimple  was  meant  for  a  purpose,  and  kept  to  a  task. 
And,  far  ways  from  superman,  the  "Doc"  could  sel- 
dom cope  with  the  impossible  of  sick-visiting  two 
spots  at  once  with  but  a  single  work-complaining  body. 
His  course  in  life  was  a  horse-path,  and  it  seldom  lay 
convenient  to  the  rough-graded,  broader  highway  where 
lay  the  men,  and  the  children  of  men,  he  knew. 

As  long  as  live-stock  kept  healthy,  the  men  and 
women  with  their  children  —  and  they  had  them  — 
worried  along  with  his  converted  services  quite  well, 
but  since  there  were  so  many  of  the  other  creature- 
patients  in  his  sour  little  settlement,  still  more  about 
the  woods  and  camps  outside,  quite  naturally  the 
harassed  Doctor  often  roved  afield  on  other  mission 
bent  than  on  the  healing  of  the  sick  among  plain 
people.  Since  all  of  them  were  poor,  sickness  was  not 
uncommon;  and  as  they  often  came  into  the  world 
without  outside  asssistance,  so  did  they  frequently 
escape  as  simply  from  it.  Every  man's  home  was  his 
hospital;  the  Company  veterinary  did  what  he  could 
to  them;  and  the  Company  store  sold  castor  oil  and 
turpentine. 

The  boy's  father  had  gone  with  him  to  the  Doctor's 
on  the  night  before,  and  his  mother  just  that  morning 
when  the  other  had  obeyed  the  whistle  of  the  mill. 
For  it  was  persistent,  and  it  would  not  be  denied. 
Small  lives  came  and  spent  lives  went,  and  troths 
were  plighted;  men  danced  and  wasted  and  drank,  but 
women  seldom  sang  to  the  tune  of  its  hoarse-voiced 
blast. 

Late  that  night  the  father,  suffering,  gulped  once  or 


WORK  19 

twice  when  they  were  home  and  said,  "Well,  Andy 
Johnson,  boy,  you'll  have  to  stand  it  for  to-night." 
Andy  did,  and  the  others  had  not  been  shorn  of  their 
rest,  but  he  —  well,  of  course,  he  didn't  sleep  so  very 
much.  Then  came  his  second  visit  to  the  Doctor,  an 
hour  or  more  ago.  Again  at  home  and  freshly  disap- 
pointed, the  young  boy's  mother  bethought  her  of 
a  cure-all  his  father's  father  used  across  the  seas. 
For  Andy  was  a  New  World  member  of  an  Old  World 
race,  and  the  waters  of  the  Skager  Rack  another  day 
had  cast  their  salty  mist  against  the  fresh-skinned  faces 
of  his  ancestors. 

The  scrimpy  medicine  chest  came  forth,  and  from 
the  part-full,  vari-shaped  vials  of  wintergreen  essence, 
peppermint,  cherry-bark  pectoral,  turpentine,  also 
something  like  oil,  she  chose  the  last.  Andy,  on  his 
knees,  so  placed  his  head  in  the  mother's  lap  that  she 
was  quickly  able  to  inflict  an  earful  of  the  liquid 
without  the  spilling  of  a  drop.  The  shock  of  in- 
undation helped  him  to  forget  the  pain,  and  the  drops 
that  shortly  percolated  out  and  trickled  down  his  back 
as  he  arose  diverted  him  so  effectually  that  the  tears 
which  had  foregathered  round  his  tired  eyes  for  several 
hours  were  sucked  back  out  of  sight  again. 

That  duty  done,  the  mother  furnished  Andrew  a 
little  scrap  of  iron  metal  stamped  by  their  Company 
"five  cents,"  and  sent  him  out  to  buy  the  bread  that  she 
had  no  time  to  bake.  She  saw  that  the  younger  George 
went  with  him,  for  the  store  was  not  so  near  that  the 
absence  of  the  pair  might  not  afford  her  some  much- 
needed  time  to  work,  and  think,  and  a  little  perhaps  to 
rest,  all  functions  which  the  worthy  woman  but  seldom 
found  compatible  with  care  and  bearing  of  a  family. 
Clutching  their  mite  of  bread-money  in  one  hand, 
George  Anderson  by  the  other,  Andy  went  adventuring. 


20  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

He  posed  as  a  man  and  protector,  a  rdle  he  often 
played,  and  filled. 

The  door  shut  them  out,  and  for  just  a  moment  the 
woman  sank  against  a  wooden  rest  to  gain  her  strength, 
as  the  two  small  chaps  outside  braced  the  searching, 
inquisitive  breath  of  a  cold  North  spring.  The  boys 
were  six  and  eight,  the  former  even  the  junior  in  that 
phthisical  settlement  where  broods  were  only  limited 
by  force  of  parent  vine,  no  thought  bestowed  on  what 
should  fill  requiring  mouths  when  they  were  weaned 
to  mushy  stews  of  the  Old  World,  or  the  pork  and 
bread  of  the  New.  The  slattern  creature  who  had 
seen  them  go  did  not  reflect  like  this.  She  was  only 
tired. 

Neither  boy,  outside,  was  in  any  way  encumbered 
with  overcoat  or  jacket  to  shield  an  ill-built  body  from 
the  frost-bit  air.  Andy  turned  up  the  small  coat-collar 
for  the  younger,  afterward  thought  of  his  own.  Both 
shivered  slightly. 

About  the  head  of  Andy  was  loosely  tied  a  piece 
of  cotton  cloth.  It  was  chiefly  dirty  and  worn,  this 
wrapping,  and  kept  a  clumsy  place  a-cock  his  head 
as  by  legerdemain.  Perhaps  one  day  it  had  contributed 
to  make  his  mother's  underskirt,  for  it  was  dimly 
figured,  even  hemstitched  just  a  bit  along  the  edge. 
Over  an  eye  it  hung,  and  farther  back  as  loosely 
wrapped  the  oil-filled  ear.  Had  any  other  boy  observed 
him,  he  would  certainly  have  chuckled,  loudly;  some 
mother  might  possibly  have  cried.  Andy's  clothing 
and  that  of  George  was  shabby  and  old,  well-darned  of 
knee  and  seat  and  where  the  little  bony  elbows  had 
helped  to  thin  the  sleeves  in  all  good  time.  The  shoes 
of  course  were  poor,  stubbed-out  affairs,  scant  of  toe 
and  low  at  heel.    The  stockings  that  stretched  from 


WORK  21 

the  shoes  to  the  much-bagged,  cut-down  or  grown-out 
trousers,  as  it  happened  to  be  George  or  Andy  wearing 
them,  were  no  more  innocent  of  mending  nor  of  holes. 
Neither  had  mittens,  but  two  red  hands  sought  for  and 
held  each  other  tight,  the  while  two  others  dug  deep  in 
their  respective  pockets. 

They  passed  nobody  as  they  walked,  and  it  would 
not  have  mattered  if  they  had.  They  might  have 
seemed  pitiful  to  a  "foreigner"  from  the  great  outside, 
had  there  been  such  an  idler  in  the  place  where  men 
rose  to  labor  from  whistle  to  whistle,  and  laid  aside 
oppressing  work  at  night  just  so  it  might  be  handy  for 
another  day.  They  simply  coughed  and  froze  from  the 
reluctant  light  of  cold  auroral  dawnings,  through 
chilly  noons  to  ice-marked  nights;  or  bent  with  other 
days,  sun-dried  with  seething  heat,  slow-coming  of 
shadowy  dusk  and  toil-marked  nights  which  only 
seemed  less  hard  because  there  was  no  light  to  see  the 
sweat.  Men  lived,  and  finally  died  to  find  the  easy  way; 
while  women  worked  and  saved  and  slaved,  to  make 
the  meagre  wages  of  the  toil  and  toll  yield  up  poor 
food  and  poorer  clothing  for  far  from  meagre  lacks 
of  always  needing  families.  The  left-over  crust  of  a 
day  was  respectable  fare  for  the  next,  as  the  peissed- 
up  clothing  of  one  was  fitted  down  to  another.  Families 
seldom  grew  up.  The  elder  children  married  early. 
They  courted  responsibility;  wed  work;  and  bred 
trouble.    Re-enforcements  took  their  places. 

It  was  a  System,  an  earth-old  System  of  father  and 
son,  mother  and  daughter  and  children.  It  nicely  en- 
gendered stupefied  minds  and  soul-sick  men;  drab, 
grubbing  women  barren  of  hope  as  they  were  not  of 
child.  Meeting,  the  two  brought  forth  new  shoots  well- 
fitted  to  replace  them.  The  offspring?  They  were 
beaten  before  they  were  born.    The  mills  themselves 


22  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

went  on,  and  on.  They  paused  not,  and  they  ground 
fine.    It  was  a  place  of  derelicts. 

It  may  have  been  the  air,  perhaps  a  little  craving 
for  the  bread,  that  set  the  pace  for  Andy  and  the  al- 
most-running George.  The  walk  was  not  a  short  one 
from  their  corner  of  the  Fork's  undecorated  shacks  to 
the  Company  emporium,  where  buck-shot  was  purveyed 
with  tea  of  the  near-East,  and  coarse  flour  sold  for  a 
consideration  along  with  "views"  of  that  fair  city's 
pock-marked  spots.  For  the  most  part  these  sang  of  log 
ponds,  or  of  mills  which  filled  the  air  with  smoke 
while  the  photographer  exposed  a  plate,  so  giving 
off  a  most  desirable  effect  of  a  fall-born  haze  which 
was  delightfully  enhanced  by  the  ascending  efforts  of 
a  giant  burner  stood  beside  the  mill.  Outsiders  called 
the  pictures  "interesting."  To  those  who  saw  the 
views,  first-hand,  they  were  "the  Fork." 

Habitually,  such  dabs  of  home-grown  color  were  met 
and  passed  unseen  by  the  two  now  going  up  the  hill 
that  flanked  a  grinding,  smoking  mill,  painted  and 
painting  in  soot,  filled  with  the  hollow  cries  of  men, 
alive  with  the  shriek  of  machines  that  took  and  tore 
and  kept  unsatisfied.  To  their  father  it  was  bread; 
to  the  philosopher,  ^^big  business";  to  a  woman  it  was 
dirt;  to  the  boys,  "the  mill" 

As  they  came  to  the  clamoring  bull-chain  —  thick  of 
link,  heavy  of  load,  as  it  portaged  its  logs  from  pond  to 
saw  —  their  father  saw  them.  He  thundered  down  a 
welcome.  As  quickly  he  looked  to  his  task  as  the 
trunk  of  a  squat  white  pine  bade  him  raise  to  the  ut- 
most the  swinging  door  that  opened  inward  to  admit 
the  log,  and  out  again  to  half  exclude  the  air  when  it 
was  cold.  The  children  answered  as  they  passed,  for 
work  was  something  to  be  undisturbed. 

Nor  did  they  stop  just  after,  at  an  open,  steaming 


WORK  23 

engine-room,  inviting  by  the  open  door  and  the  warm 
look  of  it  within.  It  stood  a  little  up  the  path,  where 
stout  Bill  Boddfish  —  officially  an  engineer,  in  pay  a 
fireman,  always  friend  —  bawled  out  to  ask  the  elder 
all  about  his  folks  at  home,  and  just  by  chance  to 
inquire  of  the  bandaged  head.  Of  course  he  had  a 
remedy,  and  re-enforced  his  loudly-shouted  questions 
with  others  of  the  health  of  Andy's  mother,  and  if 
in  fine  his  elder  brother  Hans  had  not  been  drinking 
even  more  of  late. 

For  Bill  was  always  kindly  interested,  he  being  a 
t5^ically  worthy  oaf,  and  in  the  case  of  men  and  their 
affairs  obliged  in  leaving  any  little  thing  —  like  work 
—  he  had  in  hand.  To  whom  he  talked  didn't  matter. 
He  pestered  men,  had  gossip  with  their  wives,  chaffed 
oddly  with  their  daughters. 

"It  kind  of  eases  things  along,"  Bill  used  to  say; 
and  probably  the  Management,  forever  stern,  would 
have  eased  poor  Bill  along  some  years  ago  had  not 
the  ample  energy  belonging  to  Bill's  father,  and  for 
long  expended  to  Company  glory  and  profit,  made 
total  restitution  for  any  mental  hookworm  of  the  son. 

He  would  have  talked  now  had  the  boys  stopped, 
but  they  didn't.  Not  encouraged,  no  more  dis- 
couraged, he  merely  finished  as  they  passed,  "Nice 
day  anyhow,  ain't  it?"  then  heaved  a  sigh  and  re- 
turned to  his  shovel.  Ah,  well,  he  could  work  when 
there  was  nothing  else.  "Wordy  Bill"  had  a  single 
cardinal  sin. 

From  beyond  the  mill  the  path  dipped  down  and 
showed  a  bit  of  the  lake  beyond  the  log-mussed  shore 
and  huddling  buildings,  a  little  lake  fringed  sparsely 
in  abandoned  pine  and  hemlock,  now  bathed  by  sun, 
now  ruffling  with  the  wind.  It  was  all  as  old  as 
Andrew  and  George  and  it  appeared  much  older,  for  to 


24.  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

them  it  seemed  as  if  it  must  have  always  been.  Scenery, 
if  it  had  been  there,  would  probably  have  failed  to 
make  the  younger  boy  forget  the  effort  to  make  a 
summer  cap  come  down  across  his  ears,  or  the  elder 
stop  his  hustling  both  to  keep  the  younger  warm.  For 
a  while  in  the  face  of  the  wind,  it  caught  and  struck 
at  them  again  as  the  path  curved  round  a  yard  of  rot- 
ting, low-grade  boards,  on  up  a  short  incline,  just  past 
the  Fork  Hotel  and  to  the  Store  which  was  its  neighbor. 

The  store  was  set  between  two  well-known  build- 
ings, for  next  it  on  the  other  side  was  Pop  Baum's 
"Drug  Store."  Pop  apparently  had  always  been  on 
deck,  waxing  increasingly  fat,  growing  exceedingly  rich, 
on  the  nickels  and  dimes  of  such  as  came  his  way; 
and  they  in  truth  were  not  a  few,  for  the  solace  of  drink 
was  denied  to  no  man  of  that  fair  city.  If  he  earned 
much,  he  could  afltord  it;  if  he  didn't,  he  would  fall 
behind  in  spite  of  Hell,  so  just  what  difference  could 
it  make?  Perhaps  it  left  the  wife  a  little  woebegone  at 
times,  but  then  it  sure  made  him  feel  a  whole  lot  better. 
Married  men  usually  worked  for  a  wife,  and  the 
children.  Liquor  stood  next.  Single  ones  toiled  by 
the  month  for  an  evening  in  town.  Liquor  was  first. 
Six  months  of  work  equalled  one  wild  night:  a  bodyful 
of  whiskey  that  ran  down  and  burned;  a  jade;  a  d3nng 
of  the  senses;  a  waking;  an  empty  pocket-book;  a 
headache;  possibly  more.  "Hard  come  and  easy  go." 
Well,  it  was  all  in  the  way  of  the  woods.  It  was  all 
right.  Of  course  occasionally  some  sotted  fool  gave 
to  the  mill  an  arm  or  leg,  and  some  frail  woman  there- 
by lost  her  right  to  eat.  But  the  Company  agreed 
they  had  to  have  it,  so  for  a  slight  commission  they 
tolerated  Pop  and  everyone  was  satisfied. 

Just  now  a  crowd  of  idling  men  were  gathered  on  a 
very  shabby  porch.     Pop   "didn't  believe   in  airs; 


WORK  25 

might  scare  the  trade."  Men  from  the  night  crew  lined 
the  railing  and  spotted  the  steps  of  his  grog  shop.  The 
day  crew,  being  at  work,  was  not  then  filling  the  beds, 
and  these  took  drink  instead  of  sleep.  They  were 
ringed  about  someone  so  closely  that  only  the  sound 
of  a  voice  reached  out,  one  sadly  well  known  to  the 
boys  as  it  rose,  in  tottering  tenor,  to  conclude  a  woods- 
man's drink  song  — 

"So  we'll  wrinkle  up  our  lips, 
And  take  another  sip 
Of  the  good  old  mountain  dew." 

The  fragment  ended,  the  song  died. 

The  group  parted  with  the  last  line,  and  the  dis- 
ordered person  of  a  man  emerged,  a  man  so  drunk 
with  the  squirrel  liquor  of  the  place  that  he  half-fell 
down  the  steps.  His  walk  was  a  roll,  and  another 
lent  the  first  his  staggering  company.  Strangely, 
the  boys  recognized  this  second  comer  first.  He  was 
one  who  had  long  been  tabu  in  Slab  Fork,  for  Red-eye 
Ed  was  generally  and  not  unjustly  known  by  a  repu- 
tation as  rank  as  his  breath,  a  reputation  that  had 
first  cost  his  job,  then  home,  and  finally  forced  de- 
parture, worse  than  pauper,  from  the  town.  Now  and 
again  the  outlaw  appeared,  from  where  nobody  knew 
nor  cared  so  he  got  back  there  fast  enough. 

The  hat  of  the  other  was  over  his  eyes,  but  with 
an  oath  he  raised  it,  threw  it  off,  and  stamped  it  on  the 
ground.    This  was  Hans. 

"Hello,  li'l  brothers,  whasshu  doin'  way  up  here? 
Better  g'home.  Ain't  a  place  for  li'l  men  like  you. 
Whasshu  doin'  here,  anyway?  Spick  up.  Ain't  afraid, 
hey?" 

A  boy  better  reared  would  not  have  answered;  quite 
possibly  he  might  have  disappeared,  afraid.    Andy  still 


26  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

held  his  younger  brother's  hand,  and  said  instead  that 
he  was  there  to  buy  a  loaf  of  bread. 

"Bread,  eh?  Whaddoes  an'body  want  of  bread? 
Whee!     Lesh  have  another  drink?" 

He  looked  at  Ed.  Ed  nodded.  "Yeh,  lesh  have 
'nother  drink."  Ed  was  an  echo:  he  was  always 
primed  for  drinking;  and  never  solvent  for  a  drink. 
When  he  "treated"  he  forgot  to  pay.    That  was  Ed. 

Drink-glutted  as  he  was,  Hans  looked  at  Ed,  and 
recollected.  He  sobered  a  very  little,  and  gave  a  side- 
long glance  in  the  direction  of  the  boys.  Wonder  and 
fear  were  painted  on  the  face  of  the  smaller,  a  young 
surprise,  not  fear,  causing  the  fine  blue  eyes  of  Andy 
to  open,  the  hand  on  his  brother's  to  gradually  tighten. 

The  other  hand  relaxed,  the  bit  of  money  fell.  It 
rolled  a  little  way.  He  took  a  step,  and  stooped  to 
pick  it  up  —  not  so  quickly  though  but  that  the  fuddled 
Hans  had  caught  his  shoulder  roughly  as  he  rose. 

"Gimme  it,  Andy,"  he  cried,  "gimme  it!"  The  boy 
to  the  drunkard  was  only  his  brother;  the  money  a 
drink.  He  caught  the  boy  not  over-gently,  wrenched 
at  his  hand,  and  would  have  shortly  had  the  coin, 
too,  had  not  another  witness  just  come  up.  One 
"Admirable"  Rogers  had  approached,  till  then  un- 
noticed, and  the  drunken  fellow  was  set  spinning  by 
the  hand  of  a  stooped  old  man,  a  man  that  rough  life 
and  worse  manners  had  as  yet  not  altogether  spoiled  of 
a  cleaner  and  better-thinking  manhood  than  was  com- 
mon. Even  Boddfish's  curiosity  surrendered  to  an 
exception. 

The  bo3^  were  satisfied.  Not  waiting  to  see  more, 
they  left.  The  storekeeper  was  waiting  at  a  window. 
Had  the  Store  been  his  and  not  the  Company's,  there 
is  no  doubt  but  that  the  wily  Louis  Frank  would  have 
arrived  before  the  "Admirable,"  for  Louis  was  a  busi- 


WORK  27 

ness  man  and  would  not  tacitly  have  seen  bread 
money  so  diverted  from  his  store  to  Pop's.  He  took  it 
now,  and  in  a  piece  of  old  print  paper  that  had  once 
upon  a  time  no  doubt  been  news,  twisted  a  poor, 
pinched-looking  loaf  grabbed  from  an  open  case,  a 
crumby  goods-box  at  this  season  mercifully  bereft  of 
flies,  though  of  their  memory  still  clear. 

He  shoved  their  package  at  them  crossly  and  omitted 
to  say  "thank  you,"  walking  to  the  Post  Office  along 
the  other  side  to  finish  distribution  of  the  one  day's 
mail.  He  would  read  such  of  it  as  had  not  been 
sealed,  for  Louis'  post  was  a  dull  one,  and  he  simply 
made  the  most  of  it.  It  was  even  related  that  he  could 
take  a  paper  from  its  wrapper,  inspect  it,  and  put  it 
back  again  with  nothing  so  much  as  a  crease  in  the 
paper  or  a  doubt  in  the  mind  of  the  ultimate  customer. 
As  for  the  "thank  you,"  it  was  unadulterated  waste. 
"Thank  you"  impliedly  denoted  "call  again."  Well, 
the  fewer  the  better,  thought  he,  and  it  wasn't  his 
old  store  anyway.  And  even  if  it  were,  it  wouldn't 
change  the  status  much.  The  Company  town  had  one 
store;  it  was  the  Company  Store.  "If  people  didn't 
like  it,  they  could  go  without."  Buying  by  mail  out- 
side was  pitifully  transparent,  express  agent-post- 
master-storekeeper being  as  one.  It  might  have 
saved  the  laborer  a  little  money;  sometimes  it  cost  men 
jobs.  They  usually  spent  where  they  earned,  all  of 
it. 

Andy  had  the  bread,  also  enough  of  walking.  Taking 
the  same  way  home,  the  mother  opened  for  them  when 
they  reached  her  door.  She  had  had  a  little  rest,  had 
done  a  bit  of  work,  and  she  was  glad  to  see  them  back. 
Sometimes  the  tired  woman  told  herself  that  she  was 
almost  glad  to  see  them  go;  and  still  their  comings- 
home,  even  from  little  journeys,  gave  her  joy. 


28  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

"But  ain't  you  been  a  long  time,  Andy?  What's 
kep'  you?  Where'd  you  go?" 

George's  attention  centered  on  warming  his  feet  at 
the  red-heated  stove  which  was  a  cooking  range  and 
furnace,  while  Andy  mumbled  some  reply.  She  would 
know  soon  enough;  she  always  did.  Hans  came  home 
when  he  could  not  go  elsewhere. 

The  mother  bustled  about,  too  busy  to  catch  the 
boy's  half-heard  reply,  sliced  up  her  bread  for  one 
good  meal,  and  set  tie  stew  a  little  forward  on  the 
stove.  For  noon  was  on  its  quickening  way.  The  empti- 
ness of  morning  was  due  to  meet  the  need  of  night. 
His  all-in-all  of  meals,  his  plain-cooked,  noon-served 
dinner,  must  await  the  worker.  It  took  a  spell  to  come 
and  get  it.  There  was  no  time  to  linger.  The  meal 
was  usually  partaken  of  in  gulping  silence,  an  indi- 
gestion-making gorge. 

Andy  sat  down  on  the  dirt-packed  floor,  in  a  half- 
warmed  comer  out  of  the  way.  He  chose  the  floor,  for 
the  chairs  were  at  the  table.  The  house  was  cold,  and 
he.  A  whistle  far-off  blew,  and  in  a  little  time  his 
father  came.  The  man's  eyes  showed  his  pleasure  in 
stepping  into  the  little  home  that  he  had  quitted  some 
six  hours  before.  His  smile  took  in  the  room,  the 
mother,  then  Andy  at  the  stove,  his  head  now  shorn 
of  aural  covering. 

"Feel  better,  don't  you.  Son?"  he  called  to  him,  and 
then  the  mother  summoned  them  to  table.  Their  grace 
was  unsaid  gratitude,  though  the  father's  face  clouded 
at  the  empty  chair  beside  his  wife's.  Questions  he 
might  have  asked  had  answer  soon  enough.  The  pine 
door  swung  upon  its  hinges  heavily,  Hans  stood  there 
for  a  moment  in  the  opening,  then  spilled  into  the  room. 

Not  speaking,  they  carried  him  upstairs,  frail  mother, 
wretched  father.    They  said  nothing;  it  was  not  new. 


WORK  29 

Again  they  were  at  the  table.  Andrew  touched  his 
mother's  hand,  and  she  smiled  wanly  at  the  child.  Her 
smile  was  full  of  love;  she  had  done  with  being  happy. 
Heart- tragedies  were  simply  spelled.  There  was  no 
need  to  mourn.  Indeed,  it  was  nearly  time  for  the 
whistle. 


Ill 

To  such  of  the  old-American  as  Hamlin  County 
boasted  in  its  Slab  Fork  corner  came  the  freshest  stock 
of  Europe,  well-formed  men,  hearty  women,  who  had 
frankly  come  to  get  and  take  away.  Citizen,  mer- 
cenary, earned  alike;  one  striving  to  support  a  soul,  the 
other  happy  with  a  body.  A  nation  lent  its  warmth, 
but  clinkers  filled  the  melting  pot.  The  citizen  gave 
of  himself,  heart,  body,  soul;  auslanders  laughed,  and 
took. 

They  gave  as  little  as  they  could,  grabbed  what 
they  might,  in  the  end  turned  with  sneers  from 
Samaria.  Their  patriotism  was  business;  they  worked 
for  the  Old  and  lived  by  the  New.  They  left  the 
former,  peasants,  young  and  poor  and  cursing;  they 
went  back  with  gold..  After  all,  there  was  no  place 
like  home. 

Yet  not  all  of  the  alien  Fork  were  of  these.  Those 
there  were,  from  the  Northern  lands  of  the  Old  World, 
who  with  the  first  emigres'  spirit  had  come  to  get,  and 
give.  Them  the  born  sons  of  the  new  land  met  and 
married,  though  as  yet  they  had  not  perfectly  ab- 
sorbed the  other  ones  of  Scandanavia,  blue  of  eye 
and  fresh  of  face,  sturdy  of  hope,  true  of  heart.  This 
might  have  been  a  happy  meeting. 


30  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

The  father  of  Andy  was  Norse,  his  mother  Ameri- 
can-bred. From  Mandal,  near  Christiansand,  he  came, 
where  —  had  you  only  seven-league  eyes  —  you  could 
see  Denmark  to  the  South  of  you;  the  Cattegat  and 
Sweden  to  the  East;  more  Viking  country  to  the  North; 
but  a  great  vastness  over  all  the  West.  Johnson, 
father,  was  a  large,  keen-visaged  man.  He  had  a 
weathered  look,  and  a  weary  walk.  His  clothes  never 
fitted;  he  didn't  care. 

His  wife,  the  children's  mother,  looked  tired,  and 
worked  tirelessly.  New  England  ancestors  had  once 
owned  property;  she  still  had  conscience.  Were 
Andrew  to  describe  her,  he  might  have  only  said  that 
she  was  good.  She  was  good  to  them  and  they  were 
good  to  her,  if  anybody  thought  about  it.  She  knew 
the  coming  of  a  child,  with  clumsy  hands  to  give  it 
life;  and  what  it  meant  to  nurse  that  little  one  on 
starved-out  hope,  and  slipping  faith,  and  food  that 
scarcely  kept  the  spark  alive  in  her,  the  mother. 

The  father  aged  and  grew  old  in  the  crushing  dis- 
appointment of  his  life,  but  in  the  woman  still  lived  the 
spirit  —  fresh,  strong,  courageous.  Yet  in  this  freez- 
ing, God-abandoned  corner  of  the  land  her  days  had 
changed.  Her  forbears  were  not  rich,  but  free.  She 
had  existence,  always  poverty,  often  suffering. 

While  the  husband  marvelled,  her  courage  and 
love  still  bloomed,  like  the  sprig  of  bleeding-heart  in  its 
small,  cracked  jar  that  stood  at  one  of  her  windows. 
He  did  not  know  it,  but  he  loved  the  little  plant  which 
still  flowered  in  a  land  where  all  things  left  that 
could  and  all  the  past  was  barren.  Indeed,  they  felt 
no  need  of  tenses.  Hans  promised  well  at  first,  and 
almost  as  soon  the  promise  failed,  his  decency  and 
virile  manhood  swallowed,  bit  by  bit,  by  the  swill 
which  claimed  at  times  the  greater  part  of  Slab  Fork. 


WORK  31 

Men  could  not  earn  enough  to  keep  their  families, 
anyway,  so  as  the  rum  helped  them  their  families  helped 
themselves.  There  was  a  box  factory  which  lived  on 
waste  of  the  mill,  and  fed  on  a  stock  of  women  and 
childhood,  the  child  from  its  school,  the  woman  from 
home.  The  factory  was  a  dust-filled,  noisome  place, 
cold  as  a  barracks  in  winter,  a  parching  hell  in  summer. 
Its  pennies  merely  held  the  scales  between  a  profit 
and  a  loss.    Profit  was  life.    They  usually  worked. 

The  workers  had  reached  a  stopping-place,  though 
they  did  not  know.  They  could  feel  it,  perhaps,  they 
must  have,  and  sometimes  Andy  waked  at  night  to  cry 
out,  in  the  darkness  and  the  chill,  until  he  touched  his 
brother  George  beside  him,  or  heard  the  heavy  sleeping 
of  the  elder  Hans  across  the  room.  For  a  while  he 
would  lie  and  stare  up,  unseeing,  in  the  blackness  of  the 
room,  the  shingled  ridges  just  above  his  head.  Perhaps 
his  father  stirred  uneasily  and  loudly  on  his  hay- 
stuffed  mattress  in  the  room  below;  and  then  the  eerie 
soughing  of  the  wind  across  the  shack  might  send  him 
off  again,  to  hear  almost  at  once  the  early  whistle  of 
the  mill,  his  mother  hurrying  about  in  her  kitchen 
underneath.  She  was  always  hurrying,  young  Andy 
thought,  hurrying  and  working,  working  and  hurrying. 
But  she  put  an  arm  about  him,  sometimes,  to  show 
that  she  was  satisfied. 

Except  in  mid-summer  it  was  pitchy  dark.  Some- 
times, for  the  moment  before  stepping  shivering  from 
bed,  he  wondered  idly  how  long  she  had  been  up.  Late 
at  night  he  heard  her  at  work,  as  in  the  morning,  often 
a  song  upon  her  lips  which  lilted  happily  up,  through 
boarded  ceiling  and  pine-matched  floor,  while  she 
washed  the  clothes  that  they  would  wear  next  day. 
He  often  wondered  when  she  rested,  but  that  he  never 
knew  till  late.    She  and  his  father  left  the  loft  for  their 


32  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

sons,  since  the  house,  like  the  greater  number  of  its 
kind,  had  just  three  rooms,  if  such  you  called  that  one 
where  Andy  and  his  brothers  slept.  There  was  a  bit  of 
stringy  matting  for  the  floor.  The  sides  and  sloping 
ceiling  of  the  whole  were  bare  and  rough,  with  places 
in  them  where  you  scratched  your  head  upon  a  nail,  or 
saw  by  day  a  goodly  chink  of  light  between  the  loosely- 
fitted  wood. 

Their  breakfasts  did  not  differ  much  from  dinners, 
since  silence  made  the  grace  and  and  haste  the  sauce. 
It  was  generally  a  case  of  sour-raised  bread  and  raw 
tomatoes,  re-enforced  at  times  by  coffee-colored  fluid 
which  was  hot.  The  master  of  the  house  and  Hans 
stood  not  upon  the  order  of  their  going.  They  were 
both  large  men,  the  son  of  the  mould  of  the  father.  A 
gap  of  years  separated  Hans  from  the  next,  since  there 
had  been  another  little  one  who  had  not  stayed  to  share 
their  life.  As  his  mother  sometimes  said,  "George 
sorta  favors  me."  But  Andy's  was  the  true  complexion 
of  the  Norse,  which  means  to  those  who  know  a  head 
of  curly  yellow  hair,  eyes  deep  with  all  the  color  of  the 
sea,  and  round,  smooth  cheel^  as  clear  and  pink  those 
days  as  tender  petals  of  an  early-blooming  flower.  His 
limbs  and  body,  straight,  well-formed,  assured  strength. 
There  was  every  chance  for  early  use  in  the  tasks  which 
packed  those  hours  between  their  breakfast  and  the 
coming  of  the  night. 

That  was  the  portion  of  the  day  they  all  antici- 
pated. The  father's  work  was  done,  the  mother's 
nearly,  and  the  lolling  heads  of  youth  fell  easy  prey 
to  the  warmth  that  filled  the  room  and  made  the 
rough  shack  home.  The  mother's  face  gloated  with 
contented  pride  when  all  the  coarse  food  disappeared 
with  many  a  sincere,  appreciative  smack.  The  father 
backed  his  chair  against  the  wall,  carefully  chose  a 


WORK  33 

splinter  from  the  ready  wood-box,  and  let  his  wife  re- 
move her  dishes  to  the  tiny,  crowded  table  in  another 
corner  of  the  room. 

While  she  did  the  work  they  talked  of  a  future 
which  was  brighter  at  night  than  at  breakfast;  when 
Hans  had  gone,  of  his  wedding  to  the  little  Emmy  just 
next  door,  and  of  what  the  wholesome  child,  although 
a  woman  here,  might  do  for  him  where  they  had  failed; 
and  now  of  Andy,  old  enough  to  take  his  place  in 
school  ''come  fall."  They  expected  much  of  Andy, 
since  his  mother,  not  rich  in  learning  but  more  lucky 
in  ambition,  had  already  taught  him  how  to  read  in 
simple  words,  and  there  were  other  things  he  knew. 

And  when  her  work  was  done,  her  man  built  up  a  hot 
pine  fire  in  the  little  stove  which  warmed  the  small 
"spare  room."  There,  sitting  at  their  great  extrava- 
gance, she  played  upon  a  small  old  organ  quaint  pieces 
learned  as  a  girl.  The  father  smoked  a  fimiy  pipe  or 
whittled  cut-plug,  with  now  and  then  a  snatch  of 
hoarse  Norse  song.  To  placid  mind  and  welling  heart 
the  clumsy  fingering  of  "Comin'  through  the  Rye" 
or  "Annie  Laurie"  was  as  the  finest  chords  that  ever 
sprang  to  life  from  a  Beethoven. 

As  tired  fingers  quit  the  keys  the  old  man  fell  to 
musing  of  the  days  when  he  had  been  a  soldier  of 
this  great  Republic.  Young,  very  young,  to  America, 
he  yet  had  done  a  man's  work  in  the  "sixties."  Those 
fiery  strugggles  were  dim,  but  he  kept  toward  his  flag 
an  ardour  and  love  as  rarely  splendid  in  the  native-born 
as  it  is  noble  from  adopted.  And  all  of  this  the  eldest 
of  the  house  of  Johnson  was.  Honorable  and  brave 
in  war,  the  petty  strife  and  selfish  bickerings  of  peace, 
less  understood,  had  found  him  timorous  and  vacillat- 
ing, until  his  drifting  stranded  him  at  last  at  Slab 
Fork,  to  leave  him  high  and  dry.     But  in  his  tales, 


34  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

were  George  and  Andy  old  enough  to  see,  their  father 
was  himself  as  he  would  never  be  again. 

And  Andy  listened  to  his  tales  until  the  colorful  Ben 
Hur,  across  from  where  he  sat,  assumed  less  hueful 
tints;  the  horses  grew  a  blur  upon  the  wall;  and  Hur 
was  falling  from  his  car.  Whereat  Andy  himself 
dropped  loudly  from  his  chair,  forgetting  the  picture 
entirely;  which  was  usually  the  signal  for  the  evening's 
end.  A  sharply-featured  dawn  leered  early  at  the 
Fork. 


IV 

There  came  to  the  woods  town  a  morning  in  May 
when  the  sun  shone,  and  the  cold  was  not,  and  the 
winds  with  their  ear-aches  and  frost-touched  fingers  and 
toes  had  ceased  to  blow.  It  was  spring.  The  birds  were 
glad,  and  in  their  tuneful  fashion  lifted  up  their  voices 
to  the  sky,  and  said  so.  The  woodpecker  set  his  wire- 
less to  "sending"  on  a  tree-trunk  near  the  mill;  when 
a  squirrel  came  out  of  the  top,  and  sat  on  his  haunches, 
and  made  a  mock  obeisance  to  the  sun. 

The  children,  those  that  could,  were  early  at  play, 
while  the  women  sang  as  they  toiled,  in  kitchen  or 
garden  patch.  The  men,  as  near  daybreak  they  started 
out,  cried  back  and  forth  in  home-spun  English,  "Fine 
day!"  "Yeh!  Fine  day,  all  day,"  and  quite  as  if 
they  meant  it. 

At  Johnsons'  none  set  out  to  toil,  but  all  were  busy. 
Holidays  were  two  in  Slab  Fork,  every  year,  and  the 
day  of  vacation  was  not  yet,  but  the  week  before  a  lot 
of  freshly  printed  invitations  had  come  up  on  the  log- 
ging train  to  Mrs.  Hanson,  the  neighbor  on  the  John- 


WORK  35 

sons*  right.  These  said,  in  rather  an  erratic  type  that 
might  have  been  Old  English  but  looked  a  great  deal 
more  like  German  script,  that  on  this  day,  now  come, 
would  be  the  marriage  of  her  daughter  Emmy  to  Mr. 
Hans  Anderson  Johnson,  both  of  Slab  Fork.  The 
groom's  family  breakfasted  early  as  was  usual,  when 
dishes  were  cleansed  with  dispatch  and  somewhat 
hurried  neatness. 

While  Hans  and  his  father  removed  the  parlor  organ 
by  their  front  room  window  and  portaged  it  across 
the  little  square  of  yard  to  Emmy's,  Andrew  brought 
up  with  the  stool,  which  was  not  so  very  massive, 
having  sometime  lost  one-half  the  top.  Though  there 
was  much  to  do,  a  day  lay  ahead,  for  the  wedding  ser- 
vice came  that  night  at  eight  o'clock,  someone  once 
having  vouchsafed  in  the  hearing  of  good  Mrs.  Hanson 
that  such  was  a  fashionable  hour.  Six  o'clock  or  high- 
noon  weddings  had  never  been  tried  on  Slab  Fork. 
If  bride  and  groom  and  minister  could  possibly  have 
slipped  away  to  meet  respective  obligations,  the  mill 
and  factory  would  certainly  have  yielded  up  no  more, 
for  guests.    A  crowd  was  the  thing. 

The  pine-board  doors  of  the  Johnsons  and  Hansons 
sagged  open  from  the  morning,  and  their  respective 
owners  fetched  and  carried.  A  calico-shaded  light, 
pride  of  the  Johnsons,  followed  their  organ,  and  Andy 
was  proud  to  carry  the  breakable  parts  while  George 
behind  made  shift  with  the  shade.  The  Johnsons' 
dinner  was  eaten  from  boxes,  and  supper  was  served 
from  the  stove. 

Hans,  too,  prepared.  In  excitement,  a  pink  tie,  and 
a  three-parts  shoddy  suit  bought  as  a  bargain  from  a 
"Yew"  who  had  a  little  shop  in  town,  he  quieted  his 
nerves  against  the  Drug  Store  bar.  Glass  in  hand, 
foot  touching  rail,  elbow  on  top,  he  responded  with 


36  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

drinks  and  cigars  to  numerous  jests  and  coarser  jesters. 
By  close  application,  Hans  shortly  grew  as  witty  as  the 
best.  He  even  made  it  warm  for  Wordy  Bill.  Bill  that 
week  was  working  on  the  night-shift,  which  left  day- 
times free  for  talking.  The  songs  and  joking  grew,  for 
they  and  Hans  looked  on  it  as  a  final  celebration  in 
the  spirituous.    And  there  was  much  rejoicing. 

At  the  house  of  his  bride  approached  seven  o'clock, 
and  guests  who  wished  to  be  sure  of  the  show.  Small- 
ness  marked  the  house  as  had  generosity  its  invita- 
tions. Milady  and  her  man,  buxom  daughters  and 
sheepish  sons,  came  early,  converged  upon  the  house, 
and  entered  it  with  giggling  and  much  craning.  Many 
an  arm  in  faded  brocade,  or  encased  in  a  wear-worn 
coat,  was  sharply  bulged  out  by  paper-rolled  bundles 
that  gave  off  mystery.  Wedding  gifts  were  not  dis- 
couraged here,  aping  a  better  world,  and  to  the  end 
there  might  be  no  mistakes  each  giver  brought  his 
present  with  him.  In  ones  and  twos  or  families  of 
ten  they  entered  the  open  door. 

The  bride?  Was  all  but  ready,  so  they  whispered; 
"and  waitin'  for  the  groom,"  Bill  Boddfish  mentioned 
sotto  voce.  Soon  after  eight  Hans  came,  some  said 
a-leaning  on  his  father's  arm.  He  was  red  of  face,  and 
made  his  presence  felt.    This  never  caused  a  stir. 

Nothing  lacked.  The  organist  was  in  her  place,  the 
bridal-party  waited  on  the  staircase.  It  was  a  steep 
and  winding  way,  the  top  well  hidden  from  below. 
Almost  at  once  Andy  sang  out,  "All  ready,"  and  anxious 
visitors  had  almost  put  their  heads  together  across  the 
foot  or  two  of  space  reserved  with  difficulty  for  the 
nuptial  way.  Miss  Myra  Barnes  was  underneath  the 
staircase.  From  broken  stool  and  panting  parlor 
organ  she  offered  up  in  minor  key  her  very  best,  "The 
Maiden's  Prayer."    The  stairway  creaked.    Andy  him- 


WORK  37 

self,  in  haste  to  see  the  end,  was  easily  first.  He 
landed  on  his  hands.  The  "Prayer"  perceptibly  stag- 
gered. Then  the  squeak  of  the  stairs  attuned  to  the 
creak  of  the  organ,  so  that  one  of  several  worthy 
women  looking  on  was  heard  to  murmur,  "Ain't  it 
grand?"  and  shed  a  tear. 

Hans'  collar  yet  contained  the  new  pink-cloth  cravat. 
Even  this  bride  wore  white.  Likewise  her  maid  of 
honor,  and  each  held  a  clump  of  crimson,  spotted 
flowers.  They  were  artificial,  but  they  were  very  red, 
and  the  bride  —  she  had  a  gown  that  "rustled I"  The 
best  man  was  brave  in  a  red  sweater-vest  and  a  nice 
blue  ring  just  tattooed  on  a  little  finger.  They  pushed 
through  the  guests,  losing  step  and  finding  it  again, 
each  marching  as  seemed  good  to  him  and  rather  care- 
less of  the  music  which  was  welling  up  and  down  in 
leaps  and  bounds  that  made  Miss  M5n:a's  touch  seem 
strange  and  sensitive,  a  wondrous  thing.  The  Rev. 
Leonard  Olson,  severe  and  dark  of  coat  and  Sabbath 
manner,  was  watching  for  them  in  the  parlor.  The 
organ  gave  a  parting  wheeze. 

The  pastor's  words  came  haltingly  at  times,  but  his 
success  was  ultimate.  Religion  was  a  side-line,  its 
fees  about  a  grub-stake  for  the  church-mouse.  So 
Reverend  Olson  strove  at  other  things,  mainly  at  nail- 
ing boxes.  Boxes  were  his  vocation,  souls  his  avoca- 
tion. On  the  whole,  he  was  probably  better  at  boxes, 
as  there  were  now  and  then  delays  and  gaps  of 
knowledge  in  joining  couples  and  depositing  his  dead. 
He  seldom  had  a  chance  to  use  the  blither  service, 
though  praised  for  doing  thorough  work.  No  one 
among  his  dozen  nuptial-takers  had  later  heard  his 
wedding-bells  die  out  in  a  divorce.  Yet  his  charges 
were  poor. 

At  length  the  shaky  Hans  had  found  his  ring  and 


38  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

slipped  it  on  her  finger,  and  the  Reverend  One  had 
said,  "I  call  you  man  and  wife."  There  was  a  little 
murmur  of  applause  about  the  room.  There  was  tear- 
letting,  too,  but  in  the  main  hardened  old  females  and 
blushing  young  things  bore  up  wonderfully,  with  usual 
S)mipathy  extended  to  the  mother  of  the  bride. 
"Hearts  and  Flowers"  was  ground  from  the  organ,  and 
the  world  was  glad. 

Then  at  last  the  gifts  were  heaped  on  all  the  tables 
in  the  room,  and  those  who  still  kept  coigns  of  vantage 
on  the  chairs  and  sofas  began  to  clamber  down  and 
look  about.  And  what  a  gathering  was  there,  for  sure. 
The  low  ceiling  fairly  cracked  with  the  clatter  of  all 
the  shrill,  unmusical  voices,  the  patois,  the  accent  and 
brogue;  the  high-pitched  voices  in  all  their  unchecked 
stridency,  as  they  are  heard  in  little  homes  and  in  the 
far-wide  places  of  the  country.  Belles  of  the  Fork, 
Annie  Jensen,  Lizzie  Berg,  Anna  Hanson,  and  Myrtle 
Mickelby,  all  were  there;  Joe  Jensen  and  William 
Mickeluski,  and  even  the  stern  old  "Admirable"  were  of 
the  merry-making.  While  the  scolding  mate  of  one, 
Ardella  Hansen,  for  once  in  all  her  wretched  life  forgot 
to  watch  her  husband  in  a  very  timely  eagerness  to 
see  that  thing  the  neighbors  from  next  door  had  given. 
There  was  Big  Business  too,  which  for  a  space  forgot 
great  cares  to  mingle  with  its  fellow-men  again.  Pop 
Baum  had  come  to  give  his  beery  blessing,  and  even 
"old  Doc"  Wimple  had  left  a  poor,  sick  equine  to  be 
present.    The  house  was  honored. 

Slab  Fork's  police  force,  Sandy  Jackson,  had  left 
off  his  patrolling  of  the  yard  for  half  an  hour  that  he 
might  come,  while  Chapman  Jones,  who  held  rank 
sway  above  the  Company's  Hotel,  was  there,  as  was  his 
head  and  only  waitress.  Miss  Ophelia  Claiborne,  in 
much  ado  and  real  blue  denim.     She  had  humanly 


WORK  39 

that  night  postponed  her  dishes  to  another  day  to  come 
with  Louis  Frank.  The  latter,  of  their  local  store,  was 
greatly  in  demand,  since  he  could  lend  a  little  light 
in  cost  of  others'  gifts.  There  he  was,  looking,  talking, 
letting  little  escape.  He  had  as  many  prices  as  there 
were  wage-scales  for  the  customers ;  and  he  didn't  like 
to  give  even  information.  Thirsty  Ed  had  projected 
his  tell-tale  presence  part-way  through  the  rear  door, 
when  he  was  easily  induced  by  some  refreshment  to 
leave  them  for  a  time  at  least;  and  Wordy  Bill  was 
"talking  scandal"  to  everyone  with  ears.  One  of  the 
happiest  of  mortals  there  was  Mr.  Charlie  Wall,  Slab 
Fork's  laughing  undertaker.  He  had  a  very  long  and 
dank  moustache.  At  sober  times  he  smirked  without 
its  being  seen.  To  those  who  may  not  know,  Charlie 
it  was  who  brought  the  "Fifty-Dollar  Funeral"  to 
Slab  Fork,  one  of  its  cheapest  boons  and  best.  He  had 
a  sunny,  buoyant  soul,  a  man  well- wrapped  in  his 
future.  Just  now  he  was  inquiring  with  nice  and  no 
doubt  actual  concern  as  to  the  precise  and  present 
state  of  so-and-so's  condition.  He  was  ever  thoughtful 
of  the  helpless,  the  infirm.  He  seemed  alarmed,  yet 
interested,  in  conning  o'er  the  "shootin'  rheumatiz"  of 
poor  old  Mother  Witzke. 

Even  Jack  Larrabie,  boss  of  the  mill,  was  noted 
among  those  present.  Admiring  gifts,  he  now  and  then 
exclaimed  "Jemima!  I'll  be  swiggered  if  I  ever  seen 
the  like  o'  that  before!"  Which  was  winning,  as 
usually  true,  and  givers  right  and  left  were  apt  to 
smile,  quite  audibly.  Each  donation  was  plainly 
marked,  oh,  very,  and  Mr.  Larrabie,  when  all  was 
said  and  done,  was  not  a  half-bad  sort.  He  was  as 
near  all  right  as  he  could  be  and  hold  his  job,  and  if 
at  times  he  seemed  even  harder  than  the  hand  that 
encircled  them  all,  you  must  remember  he  had  once 


40  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

been  underneath  himself.  It  is  a  school  which  shrivels 
hearts. 

Some  of  the  gifts  were  elaborate,  and  nearly  all 
were  interesting.  From  bridegroom  to  bride  had 
come  a  crayon  drawing  of  self,  a  local  artist's  work. 
And  she  had  given  him  a  pair  of  cotton  blankets,  with 
an  accordion.  The  mother  of  the  bride  had  brought 
an  old-time  print  of  "Every  Man  His  Own  Physician." 
The  groom's  own  mother  had  made  for  them  a  book 
of  home-tried  recipes,  each  one  a  gem  of  doing  much 
with  little,  the  while  his  father  had  contributed  a 
large  round  cheese  and  steel  engraving  of  Niagara  Falls. 
One  friend  had  sent  five  yards  of  sheeting,  another 
chickens,  with  a  pair  of  towels;  a  dear  old  lady  brought 
a  rather  skimpy  piece  of  quilting  —  yet  made  entirely 
of  cast-off  clothing  of  the  groom.  A  maiden  aunt  of 
Emmy's,  down  in  Mapleton,  had  sent  them  by  the 
logging-train  a  large  tin  canister  of  quite  efficient, 
withal  slippery,  soap.  She  had  made  it  herself;  she  said 
it  would  "do  up"  anything.  There  were  others:  dishes 
and  vases  and  handkerchiefs;  shoes  for  the  bride  and 
gum-boots  for  the  groom;  a  salt  and  pepper  service 
sans  the  salt;  one  or  two  pitchers  with  chips  and  cracks, 
yet  still  tricked  out  to  hold;  knitted  wash-cloths,  hand- 
stitched  towels,  a  "comforter";  even  a  large,  nicked 
bowl  which  Mrs.  Minsky  brought  (as  if  everyone 
hadn't  known  it  without  the  poor  soul's  name).  It 
had  been  a  very  nice  bowl,  probably  for  fruit.  She 
never  had  any,  so  she  thought  she'd  pass  it  on,  "wishin' 
'm  luck." 

There  was  ware  of  silver,  some  of  it  like  to  hold  its 
pale  gray  flush  until  the  morrow.  And  in  Mrs. 
Minsky 's  bowl,  because  the  largest,  were  quarters  and 
dimes,  a  half  or  two,  and  even  a  dollar,  from  those 
who  had  no  other  thing  to  bring.    More  silver  came 


WORK  41 

its  clinking  way  as  dancing  started  up  to  Myra's 
jingling  "Old  Gum  Stump"  and  "Shake  a  Leg,  Mariar." 
When  the  gallant  well-to-do  had  a  kiss  and  a  dance  with 
the  bride  of  Hans,  and  in  token  thereof  threw  much 
largess  in  the  dish.  Emmy  blushed,  though  the  bowl 
was  half-way  filled,  and  there  was  much  rejoicing. 

To  one  side  Andy  served  the  older,  stiffer  ones  with 
resiny  beer  and  limp  cake,  while  their  sons  and 
daughters  trod  a  measure.  His  father  kept  it  flowing 
from  the  keg  and  held  the  drinkers  in  a  friendly 
mood  with  many  an  ill-remembered  joke  and  tale.  The 
jokes  were  stale,  the  beer  was  fresh.  They  went  down 
well  together.  Anyhow,  they  were  so  happy  it  hardly 
mattered  what  you  told  them.  Hans'  mother,  here 
and  everywhere,  looked  to  the  comfort  of  their  guests 
and  seemed  to  have  a  deeper  pleasure  in  the  laughter  of 
the  others.    It  was  loud,  usually  rude,  and  sincere. 

Laughing  and  dancing,  dancing  and  drinking,  cake, 
cut-plug  and  beer.  Some  sipped  because  they  danced, 
the  rest  because  they  could  not.  All  soon  fetched 
twelve.  The  boss  had  long  since  gone,  but  here  and 
everywhere  still  fluttered  out  the  coat-tails  of  the  merry 
undertaker.  Those  coat-tails,  how  they  danced  to  the 
old,  and  their  wants;  how  zealous  and  careful  of  the 
lame,  the  halt,  and  the  drinking.  Charlie  oozed  kind- 
ness of  this  world,  and  promised  even  better. 

As  they  had  come,  in  ones  and  twos  and  tipsy  little 
groups  they  left.  Andy  and  the  rest  stayed  on  to 
straighten  things  around.  Nothing  was  put  off  till  to- 
morrow, tomorrow  being  more  of  today.  Finally  all  was 
done.  The  Johnsons  went  on  home  and  Andy  to  bed, 
before  their  fire  downstairs.  It  was  no  longer  very 
cold;  the  dirt  floor  thinly  blanketed  would  do. 

Long  after  the  others  beside  him  slept  he  heard  from 
the  loft  the  nervous  voice  of  the  little  girl,  and  now  and 
again  the  rough,  hard  tones  of  the  groom. 


42  BROKEN    SHACKLES 


At  noon  of  the  following  day  a  siren,  high-up  from 
its  place  on  the  ridge  of  the  mill,  sent  out  its  kindest 
summons  to  all  laborers  below  —  to  quit;  to  lay  off 
from  their  task,  and  for  the  space  of  one-half  hour  store 
up  new  energy  to  take  them  through  another  six. 
Shortly  before  a  smaller  blast  apprised  the  ones  in- 
side the  mill  itself  that  power  would  stop  as  soon  as 
"Flapjack"  Boddfish,  engineer,  could  throw  his  switch. 
What  it  was  most  of  them  knew  not,  none  of  them 
cared.  A  shut-down  was  never  unwelcome;  hang  the 
cause! 

A  moment  earlier  a  very  sturdy  log  of  old  white  pine 
had  ridden  up  the  bull  chain.  Old  Johnson  threw  it 
on  the  narrow  wooden  roll-way.  Such  thick-boled 
stuff  men  of  the  woods  called  "accidents."  Once  the 
rule,  the  woodland  round  about  the  Fork  was  only 
thinly  peppered  with  them  now.  The  thicker  log  lay 
on  the  roll-way  until  the  smaller  ones  ahead  had  run 
their  course  out  on  the  carriage.  Gleaming  handsaws 
tore  the  boards  from  logs  that  flashed  their  length  but 
half  a  dozen  times  upon  the  track,  then  passed  from 
sight,  leaving  new  boards  for  edgers  and  trimmers,  bark 
slabs  for  the  burner  that  ever  ate  all  which  entered  its 
fire-red  maw. 

It  was  the  big  one's  turn.  Perhaps  from  the  thick, 
crooked  root-stub  still  clinging  to  its  butt,  there  was 
delay  in  settling  it  upon  the  carriage  that  Hans  and  the 
two  others  rode.  Hans  was  there,  as  usual,  for  there 
was  a  holiday  to  marry  and  another  one  to  die.  Honey- 
moons were  not.  Still  elated  and  flushed  with  the 
happiness  of  his  late  venture,  he  was  equally  un- 
steadied  and  imnerved  today. 


WORK  43 

The  carriage  stopped,  the  endless  band  screamed 
out  impatiently  in  countless  revolutions.  Hans  worked 
at  the  head,  nearest  the  saw  when  the  carriage  was  at 
rest.  Cant-hook  in  hand,  he  now  stepped  quickly- 
forward  to  roll  the  heavy  trunk  his  way.  While  he  did 
so  a  man  at  the  other  end  of  the  thirty-foot  stick  cut 
away  its  one  projecting  root.  Released,  the  log  rolled 
quickly  to  the  front  and  not  unnaturally  it  found  Hans 
off  his  guard.  The  hook  fell  from  his  hands  and  flew 
another  way.  He  swayed  uncertainly  a  moment,  then 
screamed  and  fell.  The  log  stopped  when  the  man  was 
carried  with  it,  to  the  blade. 

So  the  little  whistle  blew,  and  when  the  saw  was 
stopped  there  was  no  need.  It  was  sharp,  and  it  was 
free.  The  boy's  body  was  nearly  in  two  and  he  was 
dead.  The  father  fainted,  though  of  men  called  tough; 
a  douse  of  water  was  all  he  wanted.  The  smaller  whistle 
blew,  shrilly,  impatiently,  and  the  men  were  back  at 
work.  Others  filled  the  places  of  father  and  son.  They 
worked  along  just  the  same;  soon  they  had  the  great 
log  sliced;  then  it  was  noon. 

To  a  corner  behind  the  sawyer's  pit  first  came  the 
Doctor,  without  fault  of  his,  miraculously  near. 
Charlie  Wall  appeared  on  time.  It  was  his  job.  He 
came  in  a  lumber  wagon.  Just  then  the  mill's  loud 
siren  blew  noon,  and  he  had  help  with  his  load.  In 
the  wagon  it  was  covered  loosely  with  a  bit  of  sack, 
and  Charlie  drove  along.  He  drove  rapidly,  being 
efficient.  He  reached  the  house  before  the  father  or 
the  men.  While  he  drove  a  little  fleck  of  crimson 
appeared  about  the  sides  and  bottom  of  his  wagon-box; 
a  stray  dog  sniffed  at  his  rig.  The  horse  jogged  com- 
fortably along. 

They  passed  knots  of  men  who  had  seen  it,  and 
nearly  all  had  heard,  news  travelling  quickly.     One 


44  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

who  had  not  liked  Hans  looked  at  the  passing  cart,  and 
laughed.  He  said  that  as  for  him  he  just  "allowed  as 
how  that  one'd  be  a  darn-sight  more  of  use  to  folks 
just  that-a-way  than  if  he'd  hung  around."  There 
was  a  low,  angry  murmur  when  this  was  heard,  for  in 
their  free-and-easy  way  Hans  had  been  liked.  Another 
said  that  that  was  "pretty  brash"  for  him,  stepped  up, 
and  struck  the  first  across  the  face  and  felled  him.  The 
rest  went  home  to  dinner. 

At  the  Johnsons'  door  the  undertaker  stopped.  He 
and  another  got  down.  They  rolled  their  burden  on  a 
plank,  stepped  briskly  to  the  house,  and  as  Andy 
opened  at  the  knock  of  the  man  ahead  they  raised  the 
plank  a  little  at  the  sill,  slid  it  across  the  room,  and 
in  Charlie's  cheerful  voice  announced  to  those  inside, 
"Wal,  hereheis!" 

Then  Andy  ran  to  keep  his  mother  from  the  door,  for 
the  canvas  sack  had  slipped  away.  But  she  was  there 
with  Emmy,  and  little  George.  Johnson  himself  en- 
tered at  the  front  as  Emmy  ran  from  the  rear  door, 
crying  wildly.  Andy's  mother  fainted,  while  George 
fell  sobbing  on  the  floor.  They  must  have  felt  some 
loss,  though  ignorant. 

Andy  crossed  the  room.  Putting  an  arm  around  his 
father's  neck,  he  led  him  away  from  "it."  Together 
they  went  to  where  the  mother  was  lying.  They 
lifted  her  and  carried  her  away. 

On  a  still,  warm  afternoon  a  few  days  later  the 
body  of  him  who  had  loved  and  wed,  and  lived  and  died 
in  only  a  few  poor  hours,  was  deposited  among  the 
pine  trees  on  a  hill  beyond  the  mill.  The  Rev.  Leonard 
Olson  came  once  more.    It  was  a  Sunday. 

His  spiritual  comfort  was  ashes,  although  he  said,  in 
part,  "the  mother  here  will  wait  and  watch  no  longer 
for  her  son  when  the  toils  of  a  day  are  done;   the 


WORK  46 

father,  robbed  of  his  companionship,  will  struggle  on 
alone  where  once  they  labored  side  by  side;  the  wife, 
a  wife  for  hours,  a  widow  for  the  rest  of  time, 
will  hark  in  vain  at  night,  when  the  day's  work  is  at  an 
end,  for  the  footsteps  of  the  man  she  loved,  and  lost. 
And  all  may  look,  or  they  may  listen,  and  he  will  come 
not."  His  words  of  healing  smelled  of  the  poor-souled, 
earth-daubed  man  who  sees  God  from  afar. 

There  were  people  outside,  too.    They  were  waiting 
to  see  "the  box." 


VI 

It  was  a  small,  close-fitting  building,  even  as  such 
things  go  at  the  Fork,  this  graded  school  over  whose 
dustiness  Miss  Myra  Barnes  was  arbiter.  Certainly 
she  herself  was  as  unresting  energy.  "My  stars!  how 
she  does  fly  about,"  old  women  used  to  say.  Indeed  she 
did  move  nervously  from  place  to  place,  and  not  unlike 
the  dust  that  hovered  over  everything  inside,  dirt  that 
a  poor  old  janitress'  broom  never  actually  ousted  but 
just  stirred  on. 

It  blanketed  walls  and  the  floors  and  the  ink-wells. 
First  duty  for  early-coming  pupils  was  the  furrowing 
of  names  in  desk-tops  covered  fairly  with  the  morn- 
ing's coat.  It  was  really  quite  remarkable  that  not  a 
weed  or  two  was  seeding  in  a  filth-blown  corner.  It 
was  a  pity,  too,  for  Mother  Minsky's  man  had  been  a 
very  faithful  laborer,  and  when  he  lost  his  job  through 
being  killed  she  and  the  dust  had  filled  this  berth  per- 
sistently these  many  terms.  The  Company  wished  to 
do  something.    Who  cared  for  rubbish  in  the  school? 

But  it  was  not  the  dust  on  their  desks  that  ever 


46  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

really  hindered.  The  dust  of  the  mill  and  the  mill  town 
lay  many  years  deep  on  their  minds.  It  was  a  slowly- 
gathered  pall.  You  did  not  move  it  with  a  brush;  you 
could  not  make  initials  with  it.  It  got  in  people's  eyes. 
It  thickened  life.    There  was  a  great  deal  of  it. 

Miss  Myra  liked  to  hear  "The  Graded  Slab  Fork 
School,"  which  was  true.  It  came  in  two  parts,  one 
being  the  primary,  the  other  elementary.  Others 
called  it  what  they  liked,  but  few  could  give  it  a  better 
name.  In  fact,  it  was  "Miss  Myra's."  Herself  a 
product  of  that  town  in  the  valley  below,  she  had 
been  dedicated  early  to  a  lifetime's  teaching,  nature 
not  having  gilded  her  as  a  lily,  nor  yet  as  the  rose.  No 
Mapleton  affording  that  latitude  she  sought  for  in  her 
inmost  soul,  she  had  come  years  since  to  the  town  in 
the  hills,  bringing  her  ambitions  with  her.  They  both 
stayed.  She  came  to  create,  a  school;  and  she  stayed, 
to  dictate.  The  Fork  was  better  for  her.  Socially, 
Miss  Barnes  had  good  demand.  In  music's  realm 
she  constituted  Slab  Fork's  all-in-all.  She  organed 
them  to  wedlock,  played  for  the  church,  gave  them 
material  for  dancing,  and  finally,  at  least  in  very 
urgent  cases,  could  sing  for  them,  ah,  sadly,  at  the 
end. 

When  Andy  entered  this  school  he  was  nudging  eight, 
and  in  the  course  of  his  first  year  there  he  probably 
evinced  neither  more  nor  less  ability  that  the  re- 
mainder of  the  little  Bergs,  and  Mickelbys,  and  Han- 
sons, who  cluttered  up  the  place.  Indeed,  he  was  more 
than  once  allowed  to  stay  behind  at  night  for  fighting. 
There  was  a  boy  named  Harry  Larrabie,  a  stocky  ten- 
year  old  who  was  the  "little  boss's"  son,  and  by  that 
token  and  his  own  fair  size  a  kind  of  bully-born  among 
the  chidren.  Yet  when  this  lad  had  said  to  another 
from  out  a  hard  boy-heart  that  Andy's  dad  couldn't  be 


WORK  47 

much  of  a  soldier  to  work  on  a  bull-chain  now,  which 
certainly  was  not  heroic,  Andy  had  picked  himself  a 
billet  from  the  wood  pile  and  eased  it  down  on  Harry's 
head.  To  the  end  that  others  were  edified,  and  Harry 
wore  a  bump. 

The  autumn  went  and  the  shivering,  pinching  chill 
of  the  winter  came  while  Andy  went  to  school;  and  in 
mid-winter  he  stayed  away  two  months  for  school 
was  closed,  since  education  was  a  seasonable  thing  in 
Slab  Fork  and  a  single  rusted  stove,  although  quite 
full,  could  not  suffice  to  keep  the  clapboard  building 
warm.  In  spring  it  would  open  again;  by  summer  the 
children  were  ready  for  box- work. 

It  was  a  tight  winter,  even  as  such  things  go  in  the 
wooded  hills  of  northern  Hamlin  County.  Feet  were 
frozen  within  the  mill,  and  out  among  the  board-piles 
in  the  yard;  and  in  the  houses  old  women  hugged  the 
stoves  while  chills  clutched  them;  the  younger  moved 
about  in  shawls,  with  clumsy  frost-marked  fingers. 
Clothing  lacked.  Sometimes  the  larder  ran  low  and 
there  was  talk,  among  the  men.  The  Company  had 
seen  its  like  before ;  it  looked  for  things  to  slacken  with 
the  coming  of  the  thaws. 

Emmy  went  back  to  live  next  door.  Mrs  Johnson 
came  and  went  with  many  dishes  —  "I  just  ran  over 
with  this;  we  had  so  much  we  just  couldn't  eat  it"  — 
a  state  of  affairs  that  had  probably  never  existed  except 
in  her  mind;  and  Andy  fetched  them,  often,  bundles 
of  pine-knots  and  air-dried  fagots.  Winter  settled  a 
grizzly  hand.  It  had  time  in  plenty.  The  Company, 
business-like  and  anxious  to  get  rid  of  all  the  "dead- 
wood,"  would  gladly  have  sent  the  Hansons  out  of  its 
house  at  the  first  passed  rent;  but  Larrabie  somehow 
forbore,  at  least  for  a  time.  It  might  have  brought  an 
undesirable  effect  just  then. 


48  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

In  mid-winter  good  Dame  Fortime  smiled  upon  the 
Hanson  woman  and  her  daughter,  for  the  Company 
paid  its  death  benefit  in  full  on  Hans.  You  must  know 
that  for  everyone  who  gave  his  life  in  serving  them  the 
Company  would  pay  his  widow  or  his  children,  and 
there  were  nearly  always  both,  one  hundred  dollars, 
cash.  If  after  that  they  came  to  want,  surely  it  had 
scrubbed  off  its  hands. 

Winter  ultimately  waned,  as  this  hundred  of  money 
passed  to  the  Store,  and  flamed  in  their  lamp  and  sat 
upon  their  table.  It  was  well;  the  present  was  enough, 
in  Slab  Fork.  Maybe  the  God  would  help  them, 
though  they  had  never  looked  to  Him.  Somehow  He 
seemed  a  long  journey  away.  Among  the  men  there 
was  a  little  talk.  Some  spoke  of  the  accident,  others  of 
the  women;  a  few,  thinking,  of  rights.  But  what  were 
they? 

One  night  there  came  to  the  Hansons  a  caller,  to 
whom  many  looked  up  and  some  called  "Brother." 
Parentally  dubbed  Cosmopolis  Thorn,  he  came  from 
none  knew  where.  Of  course  he  worked.  The  Com- 
pany, it  was  said,  looked  upon  him  as  about  pure  fool, 
but  if  the  men  agreed  with  this  they  did  not  say  so, 
since  he  was  treated  decently  and  conspicuously,  often 
as  "Mr."  Thorn.  Conspicuously,  for  Mr.  was  re- 
served for  the  minister  when  he  was  not  in  the  box- 
factory,  and  the  owner  if  he  were  present.  When  the 
talk  was  of  the  latter,  it  was  just  "the  damned  Old 
Man." 

As  to  the  "Brother,"  the  men  for  about  a  year  had 
been  starting  up  among  themselves  a  kind  of  semi- 
secret  brotherhood.  They  called  it  Eureka  Lodge. 
In  the  beginning  the  Company  approved,  in  fact  had 
tacitly  encouraged  it:  "for  the  promotion  of  good- 
fellowship  and  sociability,"  the  Charter  read.    As  the 


WORK  49 

Old  Man  aptly  stated  when  Jack  had  put  it  up  to  him 
one  day  in  Mapleton,  "Let  'em  have  it;  give  'em  some- 
thing to  think  about.  Shouldn't  cost  us  anything.  Even 
save  a  bit.    C'n  step  in  when  we  like." 

Eureka  grew  and  flourished  and  soon  had  passed 
original  expectations.  The  Company  at  first  had  paid 
but  scant  attention.  They  only  knew  or  thought  of  it 
as  once-a-month  or  so  assemblies  of  their  men,  fore- 
gathered in  the  Social  Hall  that  had  gone  up  about  a 
generation  back  for  goodness  knows  just  what.  The 
"Lodge"  waxed  fat.  It  swelled  with  the  interest  of 
many,  but  the  credit  mostly  went  to  "Cosmo"  Thorn. 
He  certainly  filled  a  place  among  men  who  had  opinions 
and  beliefs  a-plenty,  but  did  not  know  what  to  do 
about  it. 

When  their  caller  had  quitted  the  Hansons  he  left 
behind  a  little  bag  of  money,  exchanged  for  fresh  ideas. 

A  few  days  later,  it  was  pushing  the  first  of  May, 
Andy  was  restless  when  he  had  finished  supper  and  had 
satisfactorily  performed  his  part  in  the  general  order 
of  things.  It  had  been  a  trying  day,  all  around.  Early 
that  morning  his  father  had  fallen  and  injured  himself 
at  the  mill;  not  badly,  just  enough  to  dock  his  pay  for 
three,  four  days  or  a  week.  On  top  of  that  he,  Andy, 
had  gone  to  school,  where  he  had  had  to  lick  a  boy 
who  trampled  on  his  rights,  also  his  cap,  at  recess.  He 
had  not  emerged  unscathed  when  the  teacher  whipped 
him  in  school,  so  that  his  fruits  of  victory  were  very 
near  to  ashes. 

Lessons  he  had  had  about  as  usual,  yet  as  a  whole 
his  day  had  dragged.  The  night  at  least  was  fine.  He 
would  go  out.  Leaving  by  the  door  at  the  front,  and 
lightly  hopping  the  low  slab  fence  that  bordered  his 
house  toward  the  road,  Andy  swerved  to  the  right  and 
headed  away  from  the  mill. 


50  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

As  he  turned,  he  saw  it  sending  showers  of  incandes- 
cent sparks  about,  some  red,  some  white,  all  dulling  as 
they  swept  above  the  stacks.  Smoke  darkened  the 
sight  of  the  mill  below,  noise  fixed  it  strongly  in  the 
hearer's  mind,  as  now  and  again  hoarse  calls  or  shriller 
yells  broke  away  from  the  greater  clamor  that  filled  the 
still  blacker  building  and  overflowed  in  failing  echoes 
sent  out  to  lose  themselves  in  night.  Black  ants,  the 
men,  in  their  still  blacker  hole,  thought  Andy.  He  did 
not  think  that  ants  are  self-governed.  They  were 
working  hard  tonight,  for  logs  were  coming  in  a  steady 
stream,  and  the  owner  had  just  got  an  order  which  was 
good  for  several  months. 

Behind  the  boy  was  nervous  life  and  restless  din; 
nearer,  he  could  have  heard  great  shaggy  men  curse 
tools,  machines,  each  other  in  a  very  dispassionate  way. 
Ahead  was  sober  darkness  for  the  most  part,  and  the 
night-lent  quiet  of  dark  forest  places.  Here  and  there 
faint  lights  peeped  from  small-sashed  windows;  a  dog 
lifted  his  head  to  bay  at  the  thin  sickle  of  a  moon  which 
sent  its  first,  pale-saffron  rays  between  and  through  the 
scraggy  branches  of  a  lone,  upstanding  pine  across  the 
town. 

Some  of  that  night's  splendor  reached  in  to  the  boy. 
For  a  space  the  spot  was  obscured  where  men  like  mill 
"culls"  warped  and  shrank,  and  did  not  know  nor  care. 
The  poor,  small  town  transcended  itself.  The  boy  felt 
it.  His  spirits  rose  in  cadence  to  a  breeze  that  made 
a  soothing  music  in  the  trees  along  his  path. 

A  light  flared  brightly  ahead.  The  boy  came  near, 
seeing  it  burned  in  Social  Hall.  What  was  afoot  to- 
night? The  place  was  seldom  lighted,  and  he  had 
heard  no  talk  of  any  dance;  unless  —  yes,  that  was 
it.  Eureka  met  that  night!  Skirting  the  front  of  the 
shack,  he  slid  boylike  to  a  corner.    Here,  he  knew,  a 


WORK  61 

hole  existed.  He  had  peeked  through,  and  blown  in 
peas  during  Bible  School  one  Sunday.  Not  stopping 
to  consider  the  right  or  wrongness  of  his  plan,  he 
pushed  through  the  weeds,  close  to  his  corner,  and 
listened.    Then  he  looked. 

Yes,  he  was  right.  They  were  in  session  now.  Late 
arrivals  were  even  entering,  for  now  and  then  the 
single  door  in  front  creaked,  opened,  then  as  quickly 
closed.  A  buzz  of  conversation  and  occasionally  a 
grating  word  or  syllable  reached  out  to  him.  It  was 
new,  and  it  was  therefore  very  interesting. 

The  other  boys  could  hardly  know  what  they  were 
missing.    He  would  have  to  tell  them  all  tomorrow. 


VII 

"Who  is  there?"  cried  a  voice  in  the  front  of  the 
room.  Andy  could  see  that  the  challenge  came  from  a 
person  dressed  in  a  dirty,  torn  robe,  with  a  thick  stick 
in  his  hand. 

Another  voice  said,  "La  —  ";  "  —  bor,"  replied  the 
first,  the  keeper  of  the  door.    "Come  in." 

They  came  mostly  one-by-one,  and  as  they  knocked, 
paused  at  the  door,  and  were  passed,  they  went  toward 
the  front,  and  through  a  smoke-haze  of  pipe  and 
cigarette  clouds  Andy  saw  there  many  whom  he  knew. 
So  far  back  at  his  end  as  to  be  hid  from  sight, 
addressed  as  "Chief"  by  those  who  entered  and  saluted, 
Andy  knew  more  from  the  voice  replying  to  the  men 
than  from  what  he  might  see  that  this  Chief  was 
Cosmopolis  Thorn.  Three  other  chairs  were  ranged 
about  the  hall  a  little  higher  than  the  rest.    As  each 


52  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

man  entered  he  saluted  the  Chief,  then  passed  in  succes- 
sion around  the  hall,  from  the  first  to  the  third  of  the 
others.  Andy  knew  from  what  had  filtered  through 
his  crack  that  the  lesser  three  were  styled  the  first, 
second,  and  third  "Autocrats."  Just  what  did  that 
mean?    He  didn't  know. 

Something  pounded  at  the  Chief's  end,  and  Thorn's 
voice  rose  while  conversation  stopped.  There  seemed 
to  be  preliminaries  they  all  passed  through  together, 
when  Thorn's  voice  was  heard  again  and  all  sat  down. 

"Brothers  of  Eureka,  we  are  here  tonight  to  con- 
sider a  number  of  matters.  The  first  of  them  is  suffi- 
ciently important  to  affect  each  one  of  us;  and  after 
us,  our  people. 

"Last  week  at  your  request  I  called  upon  the  widow 
of  our  recent  member,  Hans  Johnson.  I  find  that 
•the  Company,  after  a  wait  of  six  months,  maintains  its 
policy  of  giving  one  hundred  dollars  cash  to  the  sur- 
vivors and  dependants  of  those  thoroughly  mauled,  or 
else  killed  outright  in  its  service. 

"Mrs.  Johnson  and  her  mother  had  received  the 
hundred  about  a  month  before.  Of  course,  with  un- 
paid bills  from  Hans'  death  and  burial,  the  widow's 
got  but  mighty  little  of  it  left  now.  As  you  said,  there- 
fore, I  left  some  money  from  our  common  fund  with 
them.  And,  I  have  certainly  determined  to  land  some 
scheme  to  wrestle  from  this  company  of  ours  some 
justice,  where  and  when  that  much  is  due." 

Cries  of  "Yeh!  Yeh!"  and  noise  of  hand-clapping 
was  thereupon  evident,  as  was  the  fact  that  Thorn 
had  reached  a  timely  topic  when  he  invited  some  opin- 
ions from  the  rest.    Discussions  rose. 

Admirable  Rogers  had  the  floor.  Andy  was  sur- 
prised to  see  him  there,  yet  the  old  man  was  at  ease  in 
a  respectful  silence. 


WORK  63 

"Brothers,"  Rogers  began,  his  voice  vibrating,  "I 
guess,  if  you  knew,  I've  got  at  least  as  big  a  grudge  to 
settle  up  as  anybody  here.  'Grudge,'  though,  it  ain't, 
not  by  a  hot  shot.  All  we  want,  and  all  we're  ever 
goin'  to  ask,  is  justice!  right  pay!  and  a  little  common, 
ordinary  decency  for  us  and  our  families!  It's  mighty 
little. 

"We,  you  and  I,  haven't  had  none  of  these,  times 
past.    In  the  future  we're  goin'  to  get  'em  all!" 

The  voice  of  the  old  man  rose,  and  the  flickering 
light  of  the  hall  cast  a  warming  glow  on  his  head, 
bended  with  hardship,  whitened  with  age.  He  radiated 
light;  it  seemed  almost  a  sign. 

Great  shouts,  "You  bet  we  will!"  made  the  clap- 
trap building  shake,  and  Thorn  rapped  hard  with  his 
gavel  for  more  caution  in  their  demonstrations. 

Then  said  the  old  man,  "Probably  we're  just  about 
as  poorly  fixed,  one  way,  as  any  men  could  be.  There 
aren't  any  big  sinews  of  organization  bindin'  together 
the  fellows  of  our  woods,  no  more  the  mill.  We're  like 
a  kid  tryin'  to  run  afore  it  hardly  walks.  /  don't 
think  our  time  is  here,  not  quite.  I'm  for  action,  all 
right,  but  we've  got  to  hustle  slowly." 

The  Admirable  stopped,  with  a  generally  approving 
murmur  from  those  who  are  always  convinced  by  the 
last  speaker.  A  few  thought,  nevertheless,  he  went  at 
things  too  easily. 

So  up  rose  Arthur  Witzke,  whom  rumor  connected 
with  the  founding  of  their  lodge,  as  it  had  Cosmopolis 
with  its  organization. 

"Brothers"  —  and  it  was  no  longer  in  the  mumbled 
English  of  the  poor  old  ravelled  fellow  who  sat  down, 
but  in  a  jargon  of  a  man  who  looked,  with  half  an 
eye,  what  comfortable  folk  must  call  an  agitator. 

"Brothers!     In  my  own  country,  Polen,  we  have 


54  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

had  long  to  work  for  the  cause  —  justice  and  liberty. 
Those  causes  have  much  suffered,  and  so  we  have,  my 
brothers.  Deutschland,  Oestreicht,  another,  it  does  not 
matter.  It  is  the  same  always.  They  grind  us  down, 
they  wear  us  out,  old  shoe  for  the  world  to  walk  on. 
The  people,  they  are  pounded  down;  and  they  are  never 
the  less  poor! 

"One  year  back  am  I  in  London.  It  was  on  a  May- 
Day,  not  far  off  here,  the  first  of  the  month.  But  May- 
Day  there  had  different.  Red  flags  they  have,  and 
the  police,  they  dare  do  nothing.  In  all  the  parks  men 
spik  as  they  choose.  Nobody  there  was  who  dared 
say  to  them  'NO!'  The  police  are  there.  They  only 
look.    They  try  nothing. 

"Then,  I  remember,  speaks  one  man,  and  he  say 
'What  we  care  for  country?  — something  only  to  work 
for;  or  what  we  say  of  love  of  country?  —  something 
only  to  fight  for.  Love  for  the  countryman,  that  is 
what!  and  let  the  country  look  for  itself!" 

There  jumped  up  a  man  the  boy  could  not  at  first 
see  clearly,  though  he  was  quick  to  recognize  the  voice. 
The  words  came  crookedly  enough,  but  there  was 
nothing  wrong  with  them.  When  he  had  come  the  boy 
didn't  know;  it  was  his  father. 

"I  have  been,"  the  old  chap  cried,  "in  this  country 
for  nearly  fifty  years.  I  have  suffered  for  it,  fought  for 
it,  by  god !  and  I  have  never  had  regret. 

"Blame  the  guilty,  if  you  like,  my  Brothers,  but 
never  to  forget  the  flag  that  covers  innocent.  It  is  a  fine 
flag,  a  wonderful  flag.  For  it  I  would  die.  Red  flags, 
might  be,  fill  pockets.  Our  flag  fills  hearts,  means  every- 
thing—  big  things  in  men's  minds,  love  in  women's 
hearts,  good  blood  in  bodies,  strength,  great  strength 
in  souls."   His  voice  rang  out. 

"Brotherhood  of  man?    It  only  wins  jor  man  where 


WORK  66 

country  comes  before,  and  men  behind.  The  love  of 
country?  It  is  everything!  It  is  no  more  to  blame  for 
Holden  Gates  than  us  ourselves.  I  have  fought  for  this 
flag  once,  many  times.  Again  would  I  do  so.  Let  us 
plan,  but  not  forget.  Foreign  ways  are  not  of  ours  in 
the  native  land." 

Applause  roared  out,  the  old  man  sank  down,  tired. 
Witzke  looked  sour,  and  thought  of  something  to  say. 
But  Bill  Boddfish  had  the  floor.  Bill  had  tact,  with 
something  of  humor,  and  it  is  possible  was  simply 
warding  off  Witzke.  The  agitator,  if  such,  was  self- 
opinionated,  clung  tenaciously  to  his  conclusions  and 
was  careless  of  the  rest  and  theirs.  Also,  to  return  to 
the  last  of  the  speakers.  Bill  had  been  drinking.  Most 
of  them  did  at  times.  When  Bill  drank  he  saw  him- 
self peculiarly  oppressed. 

"Brothers,"  said  he,  "and  Chief,  a  little  while  back 
I  was  a-lookin'  at  a  paper  of  a  night,  and  I  seen  men- 
tion made  of  some  all-fired  old  feller  down  the  State 
as  had  just  a-bought  a  nine  thousand  dollar  —  what? 
A  nine  thousand  dollar  dog-collar!  When  I  read  it  I 
knowed  I  knowed  that  guy,  and  sure  enough,  if  it 
wan't  our  own  'Old  Man.'  " 

"And  I  sat  there  and  thank  of  the  idacity  of  a  feller 
to  get  a  dog-collar  that-a-way;  and  for  a  dog!  I  felt 
kinda  sick  to  my  stummick.  And,  I  says,  'Ain't  that 
ignorant?'  If  I  had  a  been  down  there  in  Mapleton 
about  that  time,  I  bet  I'd  a  snuck  up  behind  that  dog, 
and  I  bet  they'd  a  had  to  have  the  muni-cipal  police- 
man out  to  kep  me  from  a  doin'  what  I'd  liked  to. 

"  'Tain't  like  me,  'tain't  at  all.  I  mebbe  was  born 
once  with  a  plated  spoon  in  my  mouth,  but  I  bit  the 
handle  off  en  it  —  right  quick!     You  bet. 

"Puts  me  in  mind  o'  something  else.  I  disremember 
now  just  what  it  was,  but  anyways  I  says,  'Here  is  a 


66  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

pretty  howdy-do.'  An'  I  says  —  Damn!  What  was 
it  I  says,  anyways,  Joe?" 

A  good  many  laughed  and  Thorn  rapped  sharply  on 
his  table.  The  recalcitrant  Bill,  when  he  would  go  on, 
found  himself  well-seated  next  to  Joe,  and  with  some 
final  forms  the  meeting  closed,  not  very  prodigal  in  re- 
sult or  agreement.  But  when  Thorn  and  Witzke  left,  a 
child  with  half  an  eye  could  see  that  they  were  satisfied. 

Dimming  lights  and  trampling  men  roused  Andrew, 
and  just  enough  of  caution  lasted  in  the  sleepy  boy  to 
hinder  his  return  till  things  were  quiet.  Going  by  a 
back  way,  he  clambered  the  fence  while  his  father 
fumbled  at  the  door.  Expectant  of  abuse  the  boy  was 
quiet,  but  the  father  scarcely  saw  him.  Andy  had 
thought  to  tell  him,  but  the  elder's  stern  face  dissuaded 
him  as  he  limped  inside  and  bade  the  boy  good-night. 


VIII 

Andy  thought  for  a  day  of  the  meeting.  Ne^  things 
came  up,  and  in  time  he  completely  forgot  it. 

If  the  men  remembered  at  May-day,  at  least  they 
gave  no  sign  that  he  could  see,  and  soon  the  school 
had  closed,  for  June  was  come.  The  season  that  to 
other  boys  spelled  rest  and  vacation,  swimming,  and 
camping,  and  tramping,  meant  to  the  lad  only  a  change 
of  work.  Idleness  was  a  condition  Slab  Fork  had 
never  tolerated;  it  could  not  afford  it.  When  school 
closed  one  entered  the  box  factory,  swept  the  mill,  or 
tried  a  hand  at  cleaning  up  the  yard.  The  last  was 
healthful,  and  there  was  little  of  it. 

Andy  made  boxes,  for  he  was  strong  and  growing 


WORK  57 

and  the  next  year  would  be  ten.  The  box  factory 
never  paid  so  well  in  coin,  but  anything  was  something. 
Sometimes  it  sent  its  boys  and  women  home  with 
twisted  fingers  or  saw-bit  hands,  and  nearly  always 
at  night  with  lame  backs  and  sorry  hearts.  But  what 
were  any  of  these,  or  all  of  them  in  fact,  just  so  a 
body  still  could  work? 

Andy  began  with  the  strength  of  nine  and  the  energy 
of  more,  to  the  end  that  now  and  again  his  wages  rose 
to  thirty  cents  a  day.  People  there  worked  by  the 
piece.  As  work  went  up,  rates  slid  down,  for  it  did 
not  do  to  earn  too  much.    They  might  get  wrong  ideas. 

He  started  with  plenty  of  health,  spirits,  and  ardor. 
Most  of  them  did.  He  pulled  square,  shook-laden 
trucks  through  and  about  the  plant;  he  trimmed  the 
ends  from  boards  and  sized  the  boards  for  cases;  and 
more  than  once  he  glued  the  boxes  or  worked  about 
machines  that  sealed  the  ends  with  grooves  or  nails.  * 
The  boy  liked  it,  this  sense  of  making  money,  and  when 
pay-day  neared  in  mid- July  he  used  to  speculate  on 
how  he  might  get  rid  of  all  that  he  had  made.  For 
Andy  could  have  a  dollar  of  his  wages,  every  week. 
Only  the  rest  would  go  to  his  mother,  though  mostly 
folks  felt  —  and  maybe  rightly  —  that  all  their  children 
earned  belonged  to  them.  It  was  a  case  of  bread, 
not  ethics. 

The  boy  worked  happily,  and  though  he  waked 
tired  and  breakfasted  half-heartedly  and  went  to  bed 
again  at  night  with  ears  and  head  that  thnmimed  to  the 
roar  of  the  mill,  limbs  that  ached  with  its  tasks,  he  got 
along,  since  he  was  doing  something  for  himself.  Be- 
cause he  had  known  no  foolish  philosophy  of  doing 
something  for  the  other  fellow,  he  felt  no  reason  why 
he  might  not  dream  dreams  or  sing  at  his  work.  He 
liked  it. 


58  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

Now  Andy  knew  that  in  their  life  the  Company  gave 
dispensation  for  two  full  holidays  in  each  and  every 
year.  With  it  they  gave  their  blessing  to  one  and  all, 
but  no  wages,  for  indeed  there  is  a  limit.  In  return 
they  only  asked  that  nobody  get  so  drunk  those  days 
as  to  be  sick  the  next.  Here  Andy  recollected  that  in 
the  normal  course  of  men  and  things  the  next  great  day, 
come  soon,  would  be  the  Fourth. 

His  father,  rarely,  told  of  other  Fourths  that  he 
had  known,  and  judging  by  his  tales  the  day  had 
sometime  had  a  meaning.  Though  the  dry-rot  of  the 
Fork  had  never  sapped  completely  his  remembrance, 
this  man  would  certainly  have  been  far  less  than 
human  if  the  spirituous  fervor  of  that  day  of  the  woods 
had  not  caused  a  rebirth  of  much  he  once  felt.  The 
day  meant  little  now  but  getting  drunk,  and  men  came 
in  from  woods  and  far-off  camps  to  meet  the  others 
of  the  town  who  had  quit  on  the  night  before.  There 
were  always  old  friends,  and  fights,  and  subsequently 
bone-dry  throats  and  long-drawn  faces  to  be  taken 
home.  Rather  naturally,  Andy  looked  half-heartedly 
upon  a  day  in  which  he  was  not  old  enough  to  take 
a  very  active  part.  In  Mapleton,  he  heard  a  man  say 
once,  there  was  speaking  and  parading  and  a  band, 
things  called  fire-crackers  and  torpedoes,  too,  which 
must  have  been  good  fun  even  if  they  failed  to  make 
as  great  an  outcry  as  the  pistols  and  the  shotguns 
which  he  knew. 

With  early  morning  the  mill's  siren  was  still,  but  in 
its  place  there  rose  to  greet  the  sun  the  bark  and  snap 
of  rifles  up  towards  Baum's,  where  rows  of  men  fresh 
from  the  woods  had  come  to  quaff  the  customary 
drink  that  opened  eyes,  and  was  the  Slab  Fork  peep- 
o'-day  for  most,  in  even  ordinary  times.  They  break- 
fasted late  that  morning,  at  Andy's,  and  it  was  after 


WORK  59 

eight  o'clock  when  he  had  done  his  share  of  stacking 
and  washing  the  dishes  and  filling  the  wood  box  with 
slabs  from  the  yard,  which  last  lay  quite  conveniently 
across  the  road  from  home. 

Mid-morning  saw  Andy  on  his  back  beside  a  pine- 
tree  near  the  river,  tiring  of  the  noise  behind  and 
wishful  of  a  change.  The  woods  rose  up  around  him, 
fresh  and  cool,  damp,  too,  and  odorous  with  the  oily 
smell  of  the  needles  that  lay  upon  the  forest  floor  and 
softened  the  bumps  of  his  couch.  It  was  ideal  "poor 
man's  weather,"  where  the  rain  meant  lay-offs. 

Birds  called  across  the  weaving  tops  of  the  pines, 
while  here  and  there,  far  out,  now  close  to  shore,  a  fish 
rose  undisturbed  to  send  a  little  swirl  of  curling  ripples 
along  the  silent  places  of  the  stream.  Had  he  been  older 
he  would  no  doubt  have  thought  great  things  through 
the  nearness  of  a  Nature  more  often  wonderful  than 
understood.  Being  but  a  boy,  and  of  Slab  Fork,  with 
some  ten  winters  and  nine  summers  to  his  credit,  he 
was  probably  not  greatly  inspired,  but  satisfied  and 
soothed,  by  mysteries  he  could  not  solve,  and  did  not 
wish  to. 

His  dreaming  took  form  in  a  nap,  to  such  good  pur- 
pose that  when  a  chipmunk  from  on  top  let  fall  a 
seed  which  struck  his  head,  and  followed  it  up  with 
a  torrent  of  squirrel-like  abuse,  he  awoke  of  a  sudden 
to  find  himself  feeling  like  dinner.  The  rays  of  the 
sun  struck  straight  downward  on  the  trees,  and  he 
knew  his  feelings  had  not  played  him  tricks,  as  boyish 
stomachs  do.  Thereupon  he  got  him  home  without 
delay.  But  after  dinner,  so  unaccustomed  was  he  to  the 
jeel  of  holidays,  he  walked  about  the  lumber  piles  and 
sawdust  streets  for  possibly  an  hour  or  more  without 
encountering  that  thing  of  which  he  was  in  search, 
just  fun.    True,  now  and  then  an  incident  occurred 


60  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

which  served  to  gild  his  day.  Up  near  the  Hall  a 
drunken  fellow  from  the  woods  had  fired  the  fuse  of  a 
giant  cracker,  held  in  one  hand,  by  the  light  of  a  short 
cigar  in  the  other.  The  cracker  spluttered  in  his 
hand,  apparently  went  out,  and  then  shot  off  with  such 
a  roar  that  women  screamed  and  boys  yelled  out  in  ner- 
vous glee.  Then  other  men  came  running  up  to  see 
the  'jack  gaze  stupidly  upon  a  wrist  and  some  of  what 
had  been  a  hand.  But  they  fetched  turpentine,  bound 
up  the  stirnip,  gave  its  owner  a  drink,  and  hurried  him 
off. 

In  the  Hall  near-by  the  din  of  a  dance  had  been 
progressing  undisturbed.  From  a  corner  window  Andy 
saw  stout  fellows  in  checkered  suits  and  bagging 
pants  dance  awkwardly  but  happily  enough  with  some 
young  women  of  the  town,  who  tittered  and  choked 
when  the  strains  of  the  lone  organ  and  drum  died 
down  and  their  sweating  swains  led  them  to  a  place 
where  something  frothingly  yellow  ran  in  an  endless 
stream  from  a  very  large,  black  keg.  It  fell,  when  it 
did  not  spill,  into  roomy  mugs  held  shakily  below,  and 
when  the  cups  were  emptied  of  their  draught  the  music 
set  tirelessly  to  work  anew  and  the  drinking  gave  way 
for  a  spell  to  waltzes  and  two-steps  done  in  the  ways 
of  the  woods,  which  you  must  know  are  first  of  all 
home-made.  There  were  other  boys  around,  some 
smoking  cigarettes,  others  just  loitering  until  some 
kindly  soul  or  elder  brother  passed  out  a  portion  of 
the  beer. 

Andy  did  not  relish  beer,  as  he  had  never  tasted 
it.  A  little  later  he  decided  for  a  walk.  He  started 
out  beyond  the  yard,  then  followed  the  track  that  led 
to  the  station.  Where  the  wagon  road  turned  south 
for  Mapleton  there  was  a  car,  an  automobile.  One 
man  sat  in  it,  beside  a  wheel.    An  older  one,  with  a 


WORK  61 

cap  and  long  tan  coat,  was  standing  to  one  side.  He 
was  talking  with  Larrabie,  the  only  one  among  the 
group  that  Andrew  knew.  A  little  ahead  of  the  car 
two  women  and  a  little  girl  were  slowly  walking.  Now 
and  again  they  stopped  in  their  stroll,  while  the  more 
apparent  of  the  older  persons  looked  back  impatiently. 

Cars  were  not  common.  Roads  were  ultra-poor, 
which  did  not  matter  greatly  as  there  was  no  one 
to  ride  them  anyway.  Andy  sidled  past,  as  close  as  he 
dared.  He  thought  of  asking  questions  of  the  one  in- 
side the  car,  who  looked  a  friendly  sort,  but  the  man 
with  Mr.  Larrabie  glanced  up  and  Andrew  changed 
his  mind.  Walking  more  rapidly,  he  was  shortly  even 
with  the  three  pedestrians.  Not  knowing  them  he  felt 
at  liberty  to  gratify  his  curiosity,  which  he  took  out  in 
staring.  One  seemed  young,  strong,  rather  fattish, 
and  was  bright  with  color;  the  other  grown-up  looked 
very  neutral.  She  was  drab,  and  said  little;  must  be  a 
grandmother  or  something,  he  thought.  He  did  not 
know  some  folks  have  nurses. 

It  was  the  third  among  them,  though,  that  held 
attention  longest.  He  did  not  know  just  what  she  was. 
She  seemed  to  be  a  little  girl,  and  very  pretty,  maybe 
a  foreigner.  She  might  be  six  or  seven,  ten  or  twelve. 
The  little  Bergs  and  Wickstroms  that  he  knew  were 
not  an  index.  Her  hair  was  dark,  with  dainty  ribbons. 
She  was  carrying  a  flowery  hat  which  dangled  from  one 
hand.  There  were  other  ribbons  on  the  hat.  She  was 
very  airy,  so  bright  and  sweet-looking  too.  He  thought 
perhaps  he  would  like  her;  but  he  was  more  afraid  of 
her.    Accordingly  he  hesitated. 

The  older  lady  did  not,  that  gay,  rich-looking  one. 
She  had  been  walking  on  ahead  and  treading  most  judi- 
ciously upon  the  sawdust  of  the  road.  By  right  of  snug 
shoes  made  for  riding  or  an  innate  squeamishness,  she 


62  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

always  seemed  ready  to  step  on  a  nail.  Andy  had  seen 
his  mother  walk  like  that  when  she  was  looking  out  be- 
hind his  house  for  eggs. 

Now  turning,  this  other  person  called,  quite  sharply, 
"Come,  come,  Barbara,  don't  keep  so  far  behind!" 
The  little  girl  jimiped,  as  she  had  in  turn  been  vir- 
tuously appraising  the  odd-appearing  lad.  Balked  in 
an  attempt  to  classify,  she  hurried  on. 

Very  shortly  the  machine  with  the  two  men  caught 
up  with  them,  the  others  entered  it  and  soon  were  gone. 
A  cloud  of  thick  dust  that  gradually  cleared  was  the 
last  that  he  saw  of  a  very  red  car. 

When  he  got  home  he  thought  of  speaking  to  his 
mother  about  a  very  small  and  pretty  girl  that  made 
him  think  of  angels.  His  mother  was  paring  potatoes, 
very  thin,  and  he  gave  up  the  plan. 

By  night  crowds  gathered  from  the  camps  outside 
and  when  Andy,  still  wandering,  peeped  in  the  door 
of  Baimi's,  he  found  the  Drug  Store  crowded  to  its 
walls  with  swearing,  jostling  men;  and  now  and  then 
one  issued  forth  to  find  a  place  of  comfort  and  con- 
venience on  the  ground  before  the  door.  Strangers 
were  there,  others  he  knew,  men,  some  women  too. 
A  cheap  piano  rattled  rebelliously;  the  crowds  laughed. 
The  men  were  of  woods  and  mill.  They  took  their 
Fourth  in  terms  of  booze  and  women,  both  bad. 

Andy  heard  one  great  fellow  say  to  the  rest  by  the 
piano,  "Who  were  the  best  man  here  'fore  /  come  in?" 
Someone  from  behind  tapped  him  with  a  bottle,  set- 
tling the  bet. 

The  men  were  frank  about  it  all.  They  brought 
money  to  see  a  woman  again,  and  drink.  They  were 
honestly  picturesque,  with  their  colored  shirts  and 
bulging  pants,  crushed-up  hats  and  the  shapeless  high- 
top  boots  that  met  their  trousers  at  the  knee.    They 


WORK  63 

were  exactly  what  they  looked.  Their  women  were 
birds  of  passage.  They  were  smooth  with  talc, 
glary  with  color.  They  had  animal  beauty  and  human 
appeal  for  the  locally  fastidious,  if  drunk  enough.  One 
or  two  of  them  had  fairly  decent  bodies.  Their  faces 
were  nicely  prepared,  their  clothes  too  fine.  Their 
hands  were  cold  and  hard,  but  they  had  very  polished 
nails. 

The  'jacks  did  not  expect  to  keep  their  pocketbooks. 

The  old  Admirable,  no  longer  his  sombre  self,  was 
the  center  of  an  interested  group,  much  as  in  his  other 
days,  if  what  men  said  were  true,  folk  of  another  sort 
had  heard  him  quite  respectfully  in  different  places. 
But  he  had  slipped  and  fallen,  even  as  he  now  seemed 
on  the  verge  of  dropping  from  the  chair-seat  where 
he  stood  by  grace  of  luck.  The  old  fellow  had  tasted 
deep  of  the  spirit  of  the  day,  but  younger  men  en- 
couraged as  often  as  his  glass  went  dry. 

In  return  he  seemed  to  entertain  them,  vastly,  for  the 
old  Admirable  could  be  witty  and  rather  disgustingly 
funny  to  boot  when  in  his  cups.  Witzke,  the  ever  un- 
easy, was  saying,  "Give  us  that  little  song  you  wrote 
the  other  day."  The  old  fellow,  as  he  balanced  there 
with  a  glass  in  one  hand  and  a  flag,  yes,  Andy  saw  it 
was  a  flag,  his  flag,  in  the  other,  seemed  not  to  under- 
stand. But  the  other  was  patient,  and  his  insolence 
finally  bored  through  poor  old  Roger's  drink-dulled 
mind.  When  the  rest  had  quieted  a  little  the  old 
fellow  straightened  his  back,  his  voice  rose  quavering 
and  queer. 

The  flag  of  the  Fourth  waved  in  one  hand,  his  glass 
kept  up  the  time.  The  words  reached  out  to  the  boy. 
What  the  tune  was  he  did  not  know.  Presumably  the 
author  made  it  as  he  went  along,  though  indeed  it  was 
a  medley.    The  words  seemed  mixed,  not  dainty.    The 


64  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

crowd  didn't  mind  and  they,  of  whom  Witzke  was 
center,  persisted  until  he  was  sung  quite  dry. 

Admirable  Jack  was  not  a  singer  and  his  rhyme 
would  not  hold  water,  but  it  took  the  crowd,  as  it 
was  of  them.    It  was  something  like  — 

"Though  Hunyaks,  men  say,  are  far  and  away 
The  poorest  damned  trash  in  this  town, 
Though  they  curse,  though  they  fight,  though  they 
often  are  tight 

They've  got  feelings,  with  guts,  deeper  down" 

"Yeh!    Good!    Go  on,  go  on,"  they  yelled,  so  — 

"Work  levels  all  men,  and  lays  upon  them 

The  knocks  and  the  struggles,  the  ups  and  the  downs, 

Till  the  days  with  their  nights,  the  wrongs  and  their 
fights. 
Might  bring  other  times,  better  fellows,  around." 

"Another!  Give  us  another."  Obligingly  he  went 
along  — 

"It  isn't  the  labor,  the  cold  or  the  heat, 
It  isn't  the  blows  and  the  curses  that  sound, 

It  isn't  low  wages  that  grind  to  the  bone  — 
It's  the  devil-built  System  thafs  knuckling  us  down." 

"Yeh,  Yeh!  Set  'em  up  for  the  Admirable,"  came 
from  the  crowd. 

He  waved  his  flag  in  an  excess  of  zeal  and  the 
success  of  his  effort,  which  together  brought  him  and 
his  flag  and  his  empty  glass  to  a  quick,  unfortunate 
finale.  The  glass  broke  to  bits  under  his  feet,  many 
stooped  to  succor  the  fallen  singer,  and  Witzke  prof- 
ited by  the  confusion  to  right  and  step  upon  the  chair. 

Drunk,  he  could  still  "agitate."    He  talked  wildly  of 


WORK  66 

the  men,  and  the  Fourth,  and  at  last  the  flag  he  had 
plucked  from  the  floor.  His  words  came  rather  dis- 
connectedly and  no  one  noticed  much,  till  with  an  oath 
he  threw  the  flag  away,  and  spit  upon  it.  Then  a  hand 
reached  out.  It  cast  him  crashing  from  the  chair, 
and  Andy  saw  his  father  in  a  group  of  yelling  men. 

Things  grew  blurred.  Glasses  and  bottles  flew. 
Finally  the  throng  gave  way  and  good  Bill  Boddfish 
tottered  out  with  Sandy  Jackson,  the  right  arm  of  the 
law,  and  in  between  them  Andy's  father.  The  noise, 
hardly  broken,  kept  on  inside,  but  the  boy  had  seen 
enough.  He  reached  home  first,  to  overhear  Sandy 
say  at  the  gate,  "Good  man!  Johnson." 

His  father  entered,  and  the  others  left. 

A  cloudy  morning;  empty  bottles  and  well-filled  men 
lying  about  the  board  piles,  and  the  street;  money 
strayed,  sense  flown.  The  bottles  laid  there.  Men 
slowly  gathered  themselves  together  and  left  for  the 
woods  or  their  work.  Many  had  spent  their  Fourth  in 
town.    It  was  a  great  success. 


IX 

"  'When  in  the  course  of  human  events  ...  a 
decent  respect  to  ...  we  hold  these  truths  to  be  self- 
evident:  that  all  men  are  created  equal;  they  are  en- 
dowed by  the  Creator  with  certain  inalienable  rights; 
that  among  these  are  life,  liberty,  and  the  pursuit  of 
happiness.  .  .  .' 

"This,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  was  the  rich  gift  of 
some  forefathers  to  their  children.  It  was  their  bargain 
with  posterity's  future.  Hev  we  tried  to  do  our  share? 
Hev  we?    There  have  been  times,  I  say,  when  Justice 


66  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

has  almost  fell  down  from  her  chair.  The  pursuit  of 
happiness  has  almost  ended  in  a  riot,  liberty  made 
a  by-word,  life  hardly  worth  living.  Discouragements 
have  piled  up  fast  and  almost  overcame  us. 

"They  said,  'Prudence  indeed  will  dictate  that  gov- 
ernments long  established  should  not  be  changed  for 
Ught  and  transient  causes;   .  .  .' 

"But  if  this  be  so,  did  it  persuade  them,  did  it  hold 
them  back?  No,  not  one!  One  hundred  times  no! 
Like  them,  we  should  get  up  and  say: 

"  'For  the  support  of  this  declaration,  with  a  firm 
reliance  on  the  protection  of  divine  Providence,  we 
mutually  pledge  to  each  other  our  lives,  our  fortunes, 
and  our  sacred  honor.' " 

So  rolled  the  famous  words  of  time  from  the  grimly, 
queerly  puckered  lips  of  Benjamin  Bergland  Bronson. 
The  day  was  Slab  Fork's  graduation,  and  "B.  B."  was 
"oratin'  "  for  the  school.  His  effort,  the  teacher  main- 
tained, was  his  own,  though  the  sentences  and  phrases 
which  followed  one  another  rapidly  and  trickled  out 
in  now  the  treble,  next  the  bass,  of  the  awkwardly  slip- 
ping voice  seemed  strongly  tinctured  with  the  Declara- 
tion; in  fact,  the  latter  seemed  but  weakly  watered  with 
the  words  of  his  oratin'. 

But  who  cared?  Not  Benjy's  mother,  certainly. 
Quotation  marks  do  not  disfigure  in  a  speech,  they 
rather  emphasize,  and  so  there  was  no  way  for  her 
to  tell  just  what  was  his  and  which  was  not.  So  she 
set  it  down  to  him,  in  toto,  in  the  way  of  all  good 
mamas.  The  teacher  was  pleased  —  she  had  had  a 
finger  or  two  in  Benjy's  oratorical  pie;  none  of  the 
fellow-graduates  or  other  scholars  were  disturbed  by 
the  words  in  the  least.  Declarations  and  Constitutions 
and  Magnae  Chartae  seldom  troubled  Slab  Fork. 
They  got  lost  in  the  woods.    Progress  and  literature 


WORK  67 

alike  were  typified  and  lived  in  countiess  pages  of  un- 
used mail  order  catalogues  which  lay  beside  the  family 
Bible  on  the  table.  Only  often  there  was  not  a  table, 
and  frequently  no  Book. 

Apart  from  Benjy's  words,  the  others  were  glad 
to  keep  pace  with  his  gestures  which,  boylike,  were  sel- 
dom packed  with  grace.  Evidently  they  had  been 
caught  from  meetings  at  the  church.  The  Rev.  Olson 
was  an  eloquent  man.  He  drove  nails  into  boxes  at  the 
factory;  he  handled  words  the  same  way  at  the  church. 

Benjy's  effort,  on  —  "Man,  His  Rights"  —  had 
"took."  Written  by  Continentals,  reinforced  by  Olson, 
shot  straight  at  them  by  Benjy,  it  held  his  hearers  to 
a  tardy  end.  A  little  girl  declaimed  upon  the  modern 
trend  of  Shakespeare,  though  about  as  near  as  they  had 
ever  reached  that  Muse  of  Men  was  in  the  weekly 
verses  of  "The  Village  Blacksmith"  which  were  pub- 
lished in  the  Crier,  Mapleton.  There  was  a  boy,  also, 
who  had  his  way  on  "Suffrage  and  Ancient  History; 
Then,  and  Now."    Myra's  fine  hand  made  the  day. 

But  Benjy  was  the  only  one  who  talked  of  love  of 
country.  Stripped  of  historic  trimming,  Benjy's  effort 
would  have  been  an  empty  shell.  Given  as  it  was,  it 
had  impressed  the  younger  Andy  quite  profoundly, 
for  he  had  always  liked  the  other.  Benjy  never  picked 
on  smaller  boys,  he  was  too  big.  Accordingly,  Andy 
listened  raptly  and  comprehended  some.  A  little 
soaked  in,  and  the  words  of  the  proclamation  immortal, 
so  different  in  meaning  and  tone,  filled  him  with  pride 
of  the  past  and  a  glimpse  of  the  spirit  which  could  burst 
out  unafraid  in  men  without  even  a  country  —  only,  it 
seemed,  to  gradually  lower  and  simmer  as  the  country 
rose  strong  from  its  cradle. 

Why,  then,  this  failing  in  his  country's  growth?  Ah, 
but  he  knew.    He  had  heard  old  Rogers  say,  once  on  a 


68  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

time,  that  if  they  all  had  kept  in  one  band  as  they 
started,  the  spirit  of  1776  might  have  been  the  spirit 
of  1876,  no  end.  Some  men  went  up,  but  most  came 
down.  Many  tumbled,  a  few  got  pushed.  As  the  old 
fellow  had  put  it,  "This  country  won't  never  amount 
to  shucks  until  her  gifts  return  to  all  her  people,  with 
well-filled  lives,  a  share  of  liberty,  yes,  and  'the  pur- 
suit of  happiness'  —  with  an  even  chance  of  catchin' 
up  with  it." 

Miss  Myra's  voice  broke  up  his  study  and  he  awoke 
to  see  the  pigtail  of  the  little  girl  in  front.  Just  as 
he  heard  a  touch  of  asperity  sound  in  the  second  sum- 
mons of  his  teacher,  the  little  tow-haired  girl  turned 
well  around. 

"Andy,  Andy!  go  an'  get  yours! " 

And  when  he  came  to,  he  found  himself  receiving  the 
diploma  of  the  Slab  Fork  school.  He  had  been  to 
sdbool,  if  off-and-on,  a  long,  long  spell  —  for 
Slab  Fork  —  and  he  realized  that  now  at  last  was 
he  master  indeed  of  lots  of  the  law,  if  none  of  the 
profits,  as  such  bosh  went  up  there.  He'd  show  it  to 
his  friend  Bill  Boddfish,  who  would  hand  it  back 
and  surely  say  he  "had  forgot  his  glasses."  And 
the  knowledge  of  all  that  he  knew  appalled  him. 
He  walked  home  with  a  proudly  conscious  mind  and 
a  royally  happy  heart,  his  mother  with  him.  At 
their  gate  she  kissed  him,  and  they  went  in  together. 

She  kissed  the  boy  good-by.  He  was  ripe  for  the 
Mill. 

The  summer  ate  deep  in  that  one  day's  pride.  It 
took  toll  of  his  youth  and  made  sport  of  his  learn- 
ing. It  molded  him  to  suit  machines  which  ran  by 
the  power  of  the  System  —  that  they  might  run  and 
work  and  mold  for  It. 


WORK  69 

It  calloused  his  hands  and  hardened  his  heart  and 
made  his  mind  afraid.  The  spirit  of  the  boy  was 
hovering  to  wing  away,  and  the  look  of  the  impotent 
earner  got  ready  to  replace  it.  Lines  came  that  are 
sketched  by  the  hand  of  long  hours  and  monotonous 
toil,  and  of  the  spirit  which  is  not  Hope.  Her  name  is 
Luck,  and  "workin'  against  the  odds;"  working  not 
for  something  that  will  be,  but  simply  that  which  is. 
The  boy  fed  his  machines;  fed  the  endless  chain  and 
iron  jaws  with  wood;  fed  them  with  the  right  of  boys 
to  boyhood;  with  the  wish  for  better,  and  the  hope 
for  nothing  worse. 

His  mother  saw.  To  his  father  the  lad  grew  more 
manly  as  his  envelope  each  month  became  a  little 
thicker  and  the  son  a  little  thinner. 

One  night  voices  in  the  tiny  living-room  below  kept 
him  awake;  he  heard  his  name;  the  sound  of  his  father 
speaking,  his  mother's  reply.  Other  nights  there  were 
when  talk  was  late  and  days  when  there  was  even  more 
economy,  upon  their  table  less  of  what  one  needed  to 
keep  poor  bodies  all  alive.  If  the  bodies  could  go  on, 
it  was  enough.  Souls  were  well  enough  for  those  who 
could  afford  them. 

Fall  reached  them  early  in  the  North,  where  the 
short  summer's  heat  could  torture  just  as  hard  but 
not  so  long  as  the  winters  which  held  the  workers 
and  their  huts  in  frosty  teeth.  There  was  a  day  when 
Andy  stayed  at  home  and  on  toward  night  he  packed  a 
few  worn  clothes,  the  way  his  father  said.  Together 
they  left  Slab  Fork,  on  the  railroad  which  every  day 
at  dark  turned  down  to  a  town  below.  His  father  said 
to  bid  the  rest  good-by.  He  kissed  his  brother,  but 
his  mother  almost  smothered  him. 

The  brothers  of  Eureka  met  again  that  night. 

Another  year  of  the  Lodge  was  up,  so  that  they  paid 


70  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

their  dues  as  Witzke  bade  them,  as  they  had  done  be- 
fore. Their  numbers  had  grown,  with  feeling  of  their 
strength. 

They  talked.  Their  Secretary  wrote  two  letters. 
Both  went  to  Mapleton  next  day,  toward  night.  One 
was  thick,  its  contents  worn  and  dirty  —  some  of  it 
torn,  all  of  it  good.  The  other  was  thinner;  it  went 
to  Holden  Gates.  They  had  waited  a  long  time  to 
send  his  letter;  they  expected  to  hear  from  both,  so 
they  were  patient.  They  had  been  waiting  for  a 
generation. 

They  stopped  at  Pop's  on  going  home.  His  friend- 
ship was  always  the  same. 


WASTE 
X 

THERE  abides  a  town  in  the  north  of  New 
York  which  long  ago  was  founded  by  the  first 
stout-hearted  builders  of  the  Empire,  those 
toilers  in  wood  and  stone  whose  early  handiwork  ex- 
tended far  beyond  their  own  days  and  their  sons';  to 
even  the  coming  of  iron  and  steel,  and  now. 

They  set  the  town  upon  a  sloping,  fertile  piece  of 
uncleared  land;  for  to  the  east  and  farther  north  was 
water,  pure,  cool  and  straight  from  outcropping  hills; 
and  on  the  other  sides  were  forests  and  a  sloping  plain, 
and  still  another  stream,  more  quiet,  which  edged  them 
roundabout  and  at  last  placidly  threw  in  its  lot  with 
the  first.  And  because  shadebearers  of  the  name  stood 
beside  the  stream,  and  on  the  plain  were  many  of  that 
name,  they  called  their  village  Mapleton.  The  name 
endured  and  the  place  grew  up  and  out,  until  one 
day  twin  lines  of  steel  reached  to  the  settlement  that 
at  the  first  lay  only  by  the  water  whose  bosom  lapped 
the  edges  of  the  town.  Prosperity  edged  in  as  its 
people  settled  on  the  land,  till  at  last  it  made  a  city, 
small  but  virile. 

Yet  one  day  its  growing  slackened,  almost  stopped. 
Trains  still  rolled  along  the  heavy  rails  but  many  went 
on  through  without  so  much  as  a  pause,  and  industry 
and  business  sped  overhead  in  the  onrush  of  progress 
and  quickening  civilization  which  passed  westward  and 
beyond,  still  farther. 

A  bilious  quiet  fell  upon  the  place  and  men,  young 

7x 


72  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

men,  talked  of  the  past:  a  town  of  yesterday  with 
memories  of  one-time  common  fortune.  Encompassing 
fringes  of  bare,  abandoned  farms,  poor  mud-splotched 
streets,  paint  chipping  from  the  fronts  of  old,  substan- 
tial houses  which  were  fashioned  in  the  styles  of  other 
times,  were  of  the  now.  In  pre- Revolutionary  days  the 
place  had  been  a  trading-post,  a  jerry-built  metropolis 
in  the  forest-wrapped  heights  that  hemmed  it  in  be- 
tween the  valley  of  Great  Moosehead  river  and  the 
high,  jet  spurs  of  threatening  hills. 

Justly  was  Mapleton  proud  of  the  past;  as  happily 
did  it  wave  careless  fingers  at  a  future. 

Some  prestige  still  attached  by  virtue  of  its  desig- 
nation as  the  county  seat,  but  business  was  quiet  and 
factories  few.  An  industry  was  now  and  then  attracted 
by  the  natural  water-powers  and  reasonable  accessi- 
bility the  town  afforded,  yet  few  concessions  and  little 
real  encouragement  were  ever  given  them  to  settle. 
Mostly,  they  didn't.  Conservatism  was  the  ke5Tiote. 
Further  and  greater  factories  meant  labor,  and  they 
were  not  so  far  from  Slab  Fork  as  not  to  know  what 
labor  looked  like.  There  was  industry  —  and  just 
enou^  —  to  leave  prosperity  in  spots.  No  booms  for 
them.    Their  quietness  was  safety. 

Such  travellers  as  had  to  pay  infrequent  visits  to  its 
marts  in  search  of  trade,  which  was  not,  were  some- 
times suspiciously  complacent  when  they  took  their 
leave  of  "Dave's"  and  rode  in  his  'bus  to  the  train  for 
home,  or  anywhere  else  at  least.  The  dust  of  the  town 
was  not  the  good,  soft,  city  smoke.  One  filled  the 
eyes,  the  other  lined  their  noses,  but  the  latter  was  the 
breath  of  hurry,  industry  and  business;  the  other 
just  descended  and  more  quietly  remained. 

Dust  there  was,  at  all  times  save  when  it  turned  to 
splashing  pools  of  mud  and  water;  or  when  the  idle 


WASTE  73 

streets  filled  deep  with  piled-up  drifts  old-fashioned 
winters  brought,  these  village  streets  so  primly 
fringed  with  double  rows  of  sugar  maples.  And  maples 
caught  the  sun  in  summer  before  it  reached  the  road, 
or  hindered  winter's  drifts.  Again,  come  spring  or 
fall,  they  gave  a  pleasant  savor  of  the  season  as  their 
leaf-buds  swelled  to  full  or  as  the  dead-ripe  foliage  first 
turned  —  then  fell  —  in  wealth  of  red  and  green  and 
tawny  gold  which  was  the  last  good  gift  of  the  advanc- 
ing cold.  They  furnished  life,  green  life,  to  Mapleton. 
In  this  there  was  but  little  competition. 

Broad  were  the  streets  and  quiet,  save  when  a  body 
passed  along  the  stone-flagged  walks  or  rattling  demo- 
crats and  buggies  jogged  into  town,  dust-flecked  or 
mud-encrusted  from  fine  old  packed-dirt  roads  un- 
troubled still  by  cement  or  Mr.  Macadam;  passed  into 
town  and  out  again,  occasionally  most  days,  almost  till 
gray  of  dawn  in  the  course  of  a  Saturday's  night  with 
its  trading  and  holiday-making. 

The  town's  own  "square"  —  devised  by  usefulness 
rather  than  beauty  —  contained  not  too  compactly  a 
wooden  banking  structure  which  also  might  with  just 
as  great  propriety  have  been  a  notions  store,  a  lodging- 
house  or  bakery;  the  Post  Office  Building,  until  the 
last  administration  a  leading  grocery;  a  harness- 
maker's  place  and  baker's  shop;  and  less  important 
miscellany.  In  toto  Mapleton  possessed  three  meat 
markets,  twenty  stores,  one  bearable  hotel,  a  Civil  War 
cannon  and  a  soda  parlor,  two  millineries,  a  single  jail 
and  a  rotting  bandstand.  The  stores  were  small,  the 
hotel  poor,  the  millineries  strange.  The  meat  markets 
were  all,  dirty  to  boot,  and  smelled  to  Heaven.  But 
people,  more  or  less,  bought  perforce  at  the  stores  and 
occasionally  bided  at  "Dave's."  The  merchants  and 
Dave  were  monopolists;  they  did  accordingly. 


74  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

The  marts  of  Mapleton  reminded  dimly  of  the  ad- 
vertising spaces  of  a  city's  journal,  and  they  might 
well  have  catered  to  the  crassly  curious  or  such  as 
sought  variety  for  its  own  sweet  sake.  They  had 
benches  before  them,  partly  for  groceries  and  mostly  to 
sit.  Wind- tattered,  rain-splashed  signs  in  front  adjured 
him  who  knew  to  chaw  "Corn  Cracker";  old  "Watch- 
Dog"  galluses  would  see  that  his  affairs  were  kept  in 
place.  Soft  drinks  were  featured,  as  also  patterns, 
dress  shields,  and  shirts  for  lumberjacks;  with  cheap 
cigars  which,  stanchly  built,  were  there  to  lend  their 
crimson-banded,  fly-flaked  presence  to  the  view. 

Window  space  teetered  'twixt  dishpans  and  dentri- 
fice,  grape  juice  and  colic  cure,  shoe  polish,  indigenous 
plants.  Most  purveyed  food.  It  was  fresh  while  it 
held  together,  fruit  if  it  did  not  spoil  while  you  waited, 
for  Mapleton  was  more  than  the  span  of  a  day's  going 
from  the  oranges  of  Florida  and  the  pineapples  of 
Honolulu. 

Most  marts  had  the  cheese-box  rostra  for  dissect- 
ing men  and  things  of  state,  albeit  with  dull  knives. 
Wagner's  "chorus  of  villagers"  topped  off  the  general 
mise  en  schne.  Some  stores  offered  clothing,  often 
the  suitings  of  yesteryear.  It  wasn't  their  fault;  folks 
ought  of  got  'em  sooner.  You  did  not  have  to  visit 
half-a-hundred  shops  to  do  your  purchasing  at  Maple- 
ton. What  one  man  hadn't,  the  rest  hadn't  either. 
One  sign  said  —  bold  and  black  —  "Team  and  Auto 
Hiring;  Fresh  Meats  and  Ice  for  Sale;  Funeral  Direc- 
tor and  Embalmer."  Dwelt  in  the  village  the  little 
brother  of  our  good  department  store. 

The  place  was  slipping  back.  It  had  put  down  a  foot 
on  the  new  and  radical;  it  had  left  it  there  —  the  foot 
—  and  it  had  gone  to  sleep.  It  happened  so  easily, 
without  effort.    Effort  would  have  forged  ahead.    The 


WASTE  76 

stores  and  business  places  spoke  for  the  present;  occa- 
sionally some  building,  the  Court  House  or  a  home 
along  State  Street,  made  answer  for  the  past.  The 
roofs  of  all  were  coated  with  moss,  the  streets  in  spots 
with  weeds. 

This  Court  House,  an  old,  age-tempered  edifice:  it 
set  you  hankering  to  settle  down  inside  the  quiet,  stout- 
built  offices  a  second  and  —  maybe  take  a  nap.  It 
was  no  longer  busy;  it  was  restful.  As  the  official 
center  it  held  the  Board  of  Education,  County  Treas- 
urer and  Surrogate  and  Clerk,  the  State's  Attorney, 
and  the  Register  of  Wills,  all  stuffed  inside  as  anyone 
could  see  who  cared  to  con  a  painted  strip  within.  It 
stood  in  a  square  of  tall  old  maples,  where  its  tower 
showed  by  day  the  four  faces  of  a  clock  which  looked 
out  North,  East,  South,  and  West,  and  whose  chime 
by  night,  answering  for  unseen  faces,  sometimes  early, 
often  late,  reached  throughout  the  town  to  say  that  all 
was  well  and  bedtime  come  or  gone.  Beside  the  Court 
House,  'way  back  in  a  park-like  place,  the  high  school 
stood,  the  Free  Academy  of  Mapleton  as  it  was  known. 
All  through  the  year  the  vine-clung  walls  gave  shelter 
and  fair  learnin'  almost  free  to  those  who  could  not 
have  a  modish  school. 

But  Mapleton  had  something  of  the  modern,  a  village 
paper,  several  splendid  factories  and  two  dentists, 
again  monopolists.  These  plants  were  not  too  large, 
but  prospering  and  run  on  rather  proper  lines.  They 
turned  out  cooperage,  redoubtable  vehicles,  wooden 
novelties,  underwear,  some  metal  castings  and  old  em- 
ployees. Automobiles  had  a  few  years  since  scared 
their  first  country  horses,  and  then  there  were 
railroads.  They  were  two,  and  they  were  not  much 
used.  Few  of  the  faithful  ever  fared  forth.  But  if 
they  did  it  was  to  come  again  one  day  and  say,  de- 


76  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

lightedly,  "How  very  natural  it  aU  looks!  I  don't  be- 
lieve the  dear  old  town  has  changed  one  bit." 

Generally,  they  were  right. 

The  yeomanry  of  Mapleton  was  chiefly  all-American, 
if  unenthusiastically.  They  were  so  American  that  the 
roots  of  their  family  trees  were  planted  deep  in  the 
soil  of  the  first  Thirteen.  Down  to  the  old  bedrock  of 
imdivided  allegiance  they  reached,  and  there  was  never 
any  other  country  for  them,  whatever  faults  they  may 
have  held  as  individuals  or  altogether. 

This  much,  then,  they  may  have  missed  by  being  un- 
progressive:  the  putrid  claw  of  foreign  infidelity  had 
never  touched  nor  weakened  the  fundamentals  of  their 
growth,  or  rather  life.  There  was  rarely  a  man  and 
never  a  reason  to  speak  for  one  land  with  the  lips 
while  the  heart  kept  time  for  another. 

True,  a  few  auslanders  had  wandered  in,  but  they 
apparently  had  been  absorbed;  they  were  prosperous, 
and  leading,  and  Mapleton  was  as  much  of  the  one  as 
was  the  Fork  of  the  other,  since  the  native-born  lived 
in  the  valley,  supported  in  part  by  the  efforts  of  aliens 
who  had  passed  on  through  to  the  woods.  A  few  had 
been  rich  a  long  time;  the  rest  poor  the  same  time.  It 
was  a  pot-pie  of  simmering  emotions,  things  —  friendli- 
ness, cruelty,  kindness,  sham;  meddling,  largehearted- 
ness,  bravery  and  cowardice,  clean  neighborliness, 
anon3mious  letters;  good  brewed  with  the  bad,  the 
worthless,  and  the  moss-touched.  Its  crust  was  thin, 
and  it  had  been  cooked  in  a  shallow  dish,  over  a  slow 
fire. 

Folks  loved  municipal  peace.  Even  elections  did  not 
disturb  them  much  except  there  was  Republican  wea- 
ther, which  brought  the  land-tillers  down  from  the 
hills  to  carry  the  vote  that  way.  They  of  Slab  Fork 
voted  not,  neither  did  they  share  in  what  was  voted. 


WASTE  77 

There  had  been  infrequent  talk  of  going  up  and  making 
real  Americans,  showing  them  just  how  to  take  their 
part  as  citizenry  in  local  statecraft.  But  this  the  more 
conservative  had  frowned  upon.  Why  bring  them  down 
when  they  were  so  contented? 

Occasionally  old  Holden  Gates  and  partner,  Her- 
mann Vogel,  had  speech  on  this.  For  as  law  in  a  small 
town  is  seldom  sufficient  unto  itself,  and  the  field  of 
limited  litigation  must  be  strengthened  and  combined 
with  real  estate,  insurance,  business  enterprise,  coal 
and  wood  and  politics  —  but  most  with  politics  —  so 
the  legal  union  of  Vogel  and  Gates  had  messed  a  bit 
therein.  They  were  Prominent  Citizens.  Both  were 
sufficiently  careless,  or  ambitious,  so  that  it  often 
seemed  that  if  the  foreign  ignorance  of  Slab  Rock 
could  only  be  "managed"  with  some  Yankee  shrewdness 
at  the  polls,  voted  as  they  were  worked,  en  masse,  un- 
thinking, it  would  be  a  handsome  factor. 

Election  days  still  passed  as  any  other  at  the  Fork. 
The  foreman,  occasionally  some  other,  came  down  to 
Mapleton  to  vote.  The  doltish,  unnaturalized  rest 
worked;  "Americanization"  had  passed  on  the  other 
side  anyhow.  Also,  voting  took  time;  time  was 
lumber;  limiber  money.     Viola  tout/ 

Vogel  was  a  radical,  for  Mapleton.  Gates  perhaps 
was  also,  but  knew  his  people.  He  owned  a  fine  nose 
for  smelling  out  political  weather,  had  been  already  a 
State  Senator,  was  Mayor  as  long  as  he  had  wanted, 
and  now  was  waiting  for  something  better  to  turn  up. 

Ordinarily,  in  Mapleton,  things  "turned  up"  slowly. 
A  contented,  meandering,  comfortable  folk  were  they, 
but  most  of  all  contented;  sitting  back  in  winter  upon 
their  hair-cloth  best  in  sunny  parlors,  in  light  and 
warmth  of  slimibering  wood-fires;  more  clement  sea- 
sons of  the  year,  and  they  were  rocking  easily  on  little 


78  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

cramped-up  "stoops."  It  was  quite  logically  a 
goodly  village,  "The  Queen  of  Hamlin  County,"  and 
everyone  was  satisfied. 

In  the  day  of  our  fathers  man  needed  man.  James, 
trader,  required  Jerry,  miller;  and  Thomas,  house- 
holder, looked  toward  young  Tim,  the  smith.  They 
leaned  on  one  another's  shoulders,  they  took  each 
other's  arms.  But  even  Mapleton  could  never  be  like 
that  again.  The  jirst  people  were  usually  those  who  had 
always  been  so.  They  had  made  Mapleton.  Why 
should  they  not  keep  it?  The  rest  simply  worked  in 
their  mills. 

The  Gates  had  always  been  there.  They  were  there- 
fore established,  though  they  had  not  always  been  rich. 
It  was  thought  that  this  would  be  forgotten.  They 
were  very  successful  now. 

Gates  the  elder  had  seen  his  son  go  through  a  law 
school  without  much  help  from  him.  The  good  man 
had  then  died.  He  bequeathed  a  worthy  name,  there 
being  no  need  of  a  will.  There  had,  in  fact,  been  lia- 
bilities. The  younger,  oddly,  had  met  them  before  he 
married  Emma  Carter.  Some  time  before  the  son  had 
set  on  quite  a  different  heritage  when  it  should  come 
his  turn,  for  his  had  been  a  somewhat  acrid  pill.  The 
poverty  was  mostly  his;  his  wife  supplied  the  bitter- 
ness. Meantime  there  was  law  practice.  There  were 
also  lean  years.  Subsequently  Gates  branched  out, 
became  a  lumberman.  Shortly  he  was  rich.  He  swal- 
lowed Slab  Fork,  and  the  anthill  was  prolific  industry. 
It  only  needed  stirring  up. 

About  that  time  a  man  named  Richard  Crimmins 
disappeared,  also  his  wife.  He  had  been  retired,  a 
substantial  man  of  family.  He  was  a  gentleman  of 
quiet  tastes,  cultured  rather  than  cultivated.  Strangely, 
he  had  a  strong  affection.    It  was  his  wife.    She  was  a 


WASTE  79 

beautiful  creature,  very  young,  but  her  vivacity  was 
poorly  foiled  in  Crimmins.  He  was  not  the  sort  who 
has  a  plaything.    He  only  loved  her. 

His  wife  went  out.  Sometimes  he  did  too,  but  very 
frequently  she  went  alone,  as  he  was  generous.  Occa- 
sionally she  went  with  Mrs.  Gates,  and  not  so  rarely 
Mr.  Gates  went  too.    They  were  a  pleasant  little  group. 

It  happened  one  day  that  their  town  partway  awoke, 
and  saw  that  Gates  was  rich.  A  little  while  before  the 
Crimmins  left  to  pay  a  flying  visit  somewhere.  They 
had  not  come  back. 

Yes,  Gates  was  rich.  He  worked  harder  and  lived 
faster,  but  he  patronized  the  arts,  endowed  a  club,  gave 
rather  noisily  to  charity,  contributed  to  upkeep  of  a 
church.  He  replaced  a  coachman  with  a  chauffeur, 
took  on  another  hired  man  folks  called  a  butler,  and 
all  allowed  his  was  a  practical  success. 


XI 

A  LIMOUSINE  stopped  by  a  smooth  granite  kerb. 
The  driver  sprang  to  the  ground.  Leaving  his  car, 
he  ran  up  a  short  stone  walk  which  ended  in  a  flight 
of  easy  steps,  and  ascending  these  rang  a  bell  which 
tinkled  nicely  in  the  house. 

A  maid  in  cap  and  apron  answered,  said,  "In  a 
minute,  Jerry,"  and  disappeared.  She  left  the  door 
ajar,  for  it  was  warmly  spring,  and  the  windows  even 
had  been  raised  to  draw  their  share  of  the  new,  live 
air  not  long  rid  of  its  frost-rimed  bite.  The  chauffeur 
withdrew  to  his  car,  where  he  waited  with  a  hand  on  the 
door.  It  was  a  new  car,  with  fine  oak  wheels  and 
saffron  trimmings;   the  driver  shared,  somewhat,  its 


80  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

newness.  If  grey  coat  and  visored  cap,  and  his  black 
puttees,  lacked  a  little  of  the  shiny  coloring,  they  none 
the  less  had  been  as  closely  cleaned.  The  man  himself 
looked  capable,  and  ever  so  courteous,  as  he  glanced 
now  proudly  at  his  charge  beside  the  street,  then 
toward  the  house. 

That  house  stood  up  erect  and  vain  behind  its 
little  strip  of  short-clipped  lawn.  First  leaves  were 
peeping  curiously  out  from  ivy  on  the  brick-built  walls, 
and  on  the  branching  sugar  maple  which  showed  its 
head  above  a  corner  of  the  mansard  roof.  Fresh  cur- 
tains fluttered  at  the  windows,  and  the  knocker  and  the 
bell-pull  at  the  door  were  very  brassy.  The  small 
square  porch  had  newly  blossomed  out  with  armchairs 
and  a  hammock,  and  a  man  was  busied  hanging  nicely 
painted  boxes  to  the  rail.  That  done,  and  he  would 
raise  a  striped  awning  on  the  front.  The  storm-house 
down,  her  awning  up,  and  people  passing  might  there- 
fore know  that  spring  was  come  to  Mapleton.  The 
curtains  on  the  porch  of  Mr.  Gates  meant,  barometri- 
cally, that  it  was  now  correct  to  speak  of  "spring." 

The  house  was  not  new,  but  the  bricks  were  nicely 
weathered  and  the  windows  set  in  cmving  tops,  and 
inside  shutters  folded  back  behind  the  newer  shades. 
The  house  wais  stiff,  yes,  formal,  yet  at  the  least  it  wore 
a  rather  settled,  deprecating  look,  as  if  its  own  fagade 
peered  down  a  trifle  satisfiedly  upon  each  other  houses 
as  had  come  there  since.  The  House  of  Gates  was 
thoroughly  established.    It  looked  very  refined. 

The  half -shut  door  was  fully  opened,  and  a  little  girl 
of  six  or  seven  years  appeared.  Composedly  she  de- 
scended the  steps,  smiled  a  nice  "Good-morning"  to  the 
driver,  and  widi  a  pretty  air  received  some  pads  and 
school-books  of  the  maid  who  followed. 

At  an  upper  window  a  lady  appeared,  waved,  called 


WASTE  81 

"Good-bye,  Barbara,"  and  went  away  again.  She  was 
not  fully  prepared  for  her  day.  The  little  girl  herself 
promptly  smiled  and  waved  her  hand,  then  settled  back 
against  the  cushions  as  the  maid  turned  toward  the 
house.  The  chauffeur  handed  her  a  robe,  not  that  the 
morning  was  cold  but  it  was  precisely  what  he  had 
been  taught.  He  closed  the  door,  cranked  his  machine, 
and  they  started. 

It  was  a  wonderful  day,  and  Barbara  called  to  open 
the  windows  of  the  car,  for  she  was  young  as  the 
spring.  The  streets  were  shot  with  sunlight,  the  skies 
held  only  little  puffs  of  cloud,  and  the  mating  cries  of 
the  first-come  birds  started  a  song  in  her  own  small 
throat,  she  probably  could  not  have  told  you  why. 
Remembering  just  in  time,  she  suppressed  the  little 
tune,  and  sat  well  back  to  the  enjoyment  of  the  day. 

The  little  maid  was  not  large  for  six,  though  pretty 
and  very  well-formed.  The  child  gave  promise  of  a 
maiden  who  might  well  be  charming,  and  perhaps  still 
more.  She  was  a  dainty  mite.  The  lashes  and  eyes 
were  softly  dark,  as  was  the  hair  that  in  a  pair  of 
ribbon-ended  bows  hung  down  behind.  Her  hat  that 
morning  was  large  and  floppy.  It  had  daisies  on  it,  and 
the  little  gown  was  very  neat  and  trim.  Its  close-wove 
wool  was  nice  and  it  looked  expensive.  So  the  little 
girl  was  pleased  and  satisfied. 

Sunshine,  so  warm  and  gold  you  would  have  sworn 
it  never  saw  a  cloud,  stole  in  the  windows  of  the  car; 
the  light  breeze  stirred  with  its  motion  promised  her 
vacation  and  longer  rides  and  summer  trips,  and  maybe 
—  and  maybe  —  a  walk  with  old  Hattie  that  night. 
Then  why  not  smile  and  wave  to  tiny  schoolmate- 
friends  she  saw  at  corners  now  and  then?  One  child 
she  sometimes  met,  a  thin-faced  thing  who  studied  at 
"the  public,"  was  hurrying  in  that  direction  now,  but 


82  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

not  so  very  fast,  since  one  of  the  little  feet  and  legs 
was  lame;  and  probably  could  never  grow  just  like  the 
other.  For  a  moment  Barbara  considered  stopping,  and 
only  just  in  time  recalled  her  mother. 

While  the  car  spun  along  on  its  way  to  school,  the 
birds  sang  on  the  newly-leaving  trees.  Behind,  the 
little  lame  girl  stubbed  along. 

Miss  Brownscombe's  school,  where  Barbara  was 
bound,  stood  at  one  end  of  Main  Street.  The  parents 
of  several  little  Barbaras  sent  their  daughters  thence 
to  imbibe  much  not  taught  in  public  schools;  and  miss 
more  that  could  not  be  learned  anywhere  else.  The 
lucky  students  at  Miss  Brownscombe's,  young  as  they 
might  be,  were  treated  to  a  finishing  process  which 
usually  endured,  so  that  her  product  stood  out  among 
the  ordinary  throng.  The  product  did  not  object;  and 
the  ultimate  consimier  was  apparently  content. 

The  car  reached  Miss  Brownscombe's,  its  door  auto- 
matically opened,  and  Barbara  ran  in.  Miss  Browns- 
combe  met  her  in  the  hall,  saw  to  her  hat  and  coat,  and 
the  little  girl  went  on  to  the  school-room  in  a  front 
wing  of  the  house.  It  was  not  quite  nine  o'clock,  so 
that  pupils  were  gathered  in  knots  of  two  or  three  by 
size  or  age,  or  family,  and  were  talking  divers  things, 
like  grown-ups.  Some  were  relatively  old,  at  least 
of  the  high  school  age,  though  there  were  others  quite 
as  young  as  Barbara. 

"Oh,  my  dear,"  said  one,  as  the  latter  joined  them 
at  the  door,  "what  a  horribly  smart  gown  you  have  on. 
Where  in  the  world  did  you  get  it.  I  never  have  any- 
thing to  wear  like  that." 

The  children  were  all  progressive. 

"Do  you  really  like  it?  Mother  got  it  in  New  York 
last  week." 

"Well,  it  certainly  is  the  sweetest  thing!     Mamma 


WASTE  83 

has  promised  to  take  me  there  in  June,  and  I  am  wild 
to  go." 

"What  are  you  going  to  wear  for  Freddie  Hunter's 
party,  Barbara?"  spoke  up  another. 

"I  don't  know.  My  new  white  one,  I  suppose," 
answered  the  one  addressed.    "What  are  you?" 

"Young  ladies,  young  ladies,"  said  Miss  Browns- 
combe  in  a  nicely  ice-cooled  manner,  just  coming  in, 
"please  take  your  places  for  the  morning's  classes." 

Exercises  finished  with  a  prayer  through  which  a 
few  were  stooped  devoutly  forward  on  their  foreheads. 
This  over  all  vouchsafed  a  loud  "Amen!"  one  part 
thankfulness,  three  of  relief. 

Work  went  as  usual.  In  all  good  time  the  slow  black 
hands  of  the  schoolroom  clock  said  twelve,  and  here 
and  there  about  the  town  a  whistle  sounded.  An 
Angelus  was  rung,  and  the  noise  of  horns  and  clutching 
brakes  outside  was  further  proof  that  they  might  leave 
for  lunch.  So  out  they  piled.  The  door  of  the  shiny 
limousine  opened  again  to  Barbara,  and  she  got  in, 
but  this  time  not  alone.  Dorothie  Turner  lived  in  a 
large  brown  house  next  door  to  hers.  It  was  permis- 
sible to  ride  with  Dorothie. 

The  little  girls  sat  back  dangling  their  feet,  and  rode 
laughing  up  the  Main  Street  of  the  town,  past  Mill 
Road,  just  now  vomiting  forth  the  operatives  of  a  pair 
of  factories  farther  down  there  by  the  stream ;  by  a  few 
of  the  town's  few  stores;  turning  up  State  Street  to  the 
residential  section  where  their  set  lived  and  moved  and 
had  a  being.  Dorothie  and  Barbara  entered  each  her 
home,  where  the  latter  was  promptly  set  upon  and 
seized,  washed,  combed  and  brushed  by  the  maid,  then 
sent  below.  Steven  was  just  announcing  "Luncheon 
served." 

Mrs  Gates  went  in  with  Barbara,  and  her  father 


84  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

entered  from  the  street.  He  came  in  briskly,  whistling, 
and  sat  down  with  them. 

"Well,  what  news  today,  Holden?"  Mrs.  Gates  in- 
quired very  genially  when  eating  had  progressed  enough 
to  warrant  talk. 

"Very  little,  my  dear.  Oh,  yes  —  now  I  think  of  it, 
another  of  the  men  was  killed  up  at  the  Fork  yesterday. 
He  left  a  wife,  just  been  married  a  day  or  two,  but  the 
Company's  all  right.    He  was  drunk  when  it  happened." 

So  Barbara's  Mother  said,  "My,  how  fortunate!" 

And  shortly  after,  "Barbara,  dear,  run  up  and  have 
your  gown  changed.  You  should  start  back  for  school, 
and  you  do  look  so  untidy! " 


XII 

Evening  had  laid  its  pall  of  dusk  across  the  homes 
and  streets  of  Mapleton.  Factory  whistles  blew; 
workers  were  stumbling  home  with  empty  dinner  pails 
and  stomachs;  the  clock  atop  the  Court  House  dinned 
out  the  toilers'  reprieve  of  six;  and  here  and  there 
bright  lights  flashed  up  inside  the  brick-front  residences 
on  State  Street. 

Small,  futile  lamps  were  flickering  on  corners,  their 
rays  surrendering  to  darkness  in  the  maze  of  maple 
trees  and  leaves  that  hemmed  them  in.  Lighting  in 
Mapleton  was  not  a  civic  science.  It  mainly  empha- 
sized dark  spots,  and  never  got  much  farther  than  the 
lamp-posts. 

Fatigue  was  daubed  upon  men's  faces,  with  dirt  and 
grease  on  clothes.  In  paint  or  varnish  discernment 
read  which  worked  on  furniture  down  by  the  river;  or 
by  the  caking  grime,  beside  which  ordinary  blackness 


WASTE  86 

paled,  picked  those  who  forged  large  water-wheels  for 
small,  reluctant  dollars  inside  a  hard-by  foundry. 
Girls  were  there,  too,  poor  slips  with  cringing  backs 
and  burning  feet  and  likely  tired  heads,  who  stood  be- 
side a  lab3a"inth  of  circling  spools  and  spindles  for 
weary  years  of  days.  Of  course,  they  were  girls  from 
the  mill.    None  of  them  were  tired;  they  were  numb. 

Work  crowded  old  flag  walks,  but  in  the  street  that 
lay  between  Life  flowed  along  by  motor.  The  cushion 
was  soft,  so  the  road  was  smooth.  Ladies  talked  and 
children  laughed,  or  sang.  Their  cries  lay  cheerily 
upon  the  ears  of  those  who  stimibled.  There  is  so  much 
for  which  to  live  when  man  stands  waiting  with  a  check- 
book and  your  maid  will  do  the  rest,  though  these  have 
not  eaten  either. 

And  here  is  one  in  misery  —  soft  gown,  rich  fur,  and 
fine- wove  wrap;  plunged  deep  in  it.  For  the  new  pink 
silk,  it  has  not  come. 

Exclusiveness  is  out.  Scattered  as  they  emerge  from 
different  homes,  the  motors  by  degrees  converge  until 
in  single  file  they  sweep  along  and  up  a  pebbled  drive, 
to  stop  inside  the  porte  cochere  of  White  Hall,  the  old 
home,  excellent  and  formal,  of  the  Thomas  Watson 
Hunters. 

Colonel  Hunter  was  a  gentleman  by  birth  and  a  man 
by  inclination.  As  a  "Colonel"  he  was  war-made.  As 
all  three  he  was  authentic.  His  wife  was  a  very  good 
woman.  They  were  prominent  and  did  not  trouble  to 
be  snobbish.  Creme  de  la  creme,  of  the  best,  the 
Colonel  Hunters  were  apt  occasionally  to  offer  hospi- 
tality to  Mapleton.  Mapleton  gorged.  You  met  at 
Colonel  Hunter's,  now  and  then,  poor  friends  of  the 
Gates  and  Carpenters  and  Twilbys.  The  Hunters 
were  so  well  established  they  frequently  practiced 
democracy,  and  really  meant  it. 


86  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

"Colonel  Thomas,"  strangers  said,  was  certainly  "a 
fine  old  man,"  as  old  and  near  gone  as  his  type.  He 
was  a  lawyer,  and  a  good  one;  he  was  honest,  yet  suc- 
cessful. He  had  occupied  at  times  some  fairly  high-up 
offices,  but  he  enjoyed  the  good-will  of  those  who 
hadn't. 

Years  ago  the  Hunters  had  a  daughter,  a  girl  who 
made  them  live  again.  A  lovely  child  became  a  woman 
who  was  exquisite.  Then  she  had  died,  perhaps  ten 
years  ago.  It  is  not  easy  to  reckon  time  in  a  small 
town.  But  the  Hand  that  had  taken  returned  them  a 
son,  a  boy  much  younger,  Frederick  Cushman.  At 
present  he  was  Fred,  and  Mrs.  Hunter  had  prepared  a 
little  party  for  him.  Her  trifling  gatherings  were  gen- 
erally affairs  of  no  mean  size.  Many  of  Freddie's  age 
were  bade,  and  to  the  end  there  might  be  some  amuse- 
ment for  herself  she  asked  their  mothers  with  them. 

The  children  were  ready  at  four  o'clock,  not  so  their 
mothers.  It  was  a  little  after  six  that  Gates'  machine 
had  made  its  way  down  State,  up  Main,  and  finally 
found  itself  behind  a  row  of  others  fronting  Hunters'. 
The  Gates  were  far  to  the  rear,  for  goodwife  Gates 
was  informed. 

They  had  not  very  long  to  wait,  and  gradually  they 
worked  inside  and  were  assisted  from  their  car. 
Though  it  had  room  for  six  or  seven,  just  Mrs.  Gates 
and  Barbara  were  in  it.  They  noticed  going  in  that 
some  had  come  afoot. 

Inside  was  Mrs.  Hunter,  dispensing  welcomes  and  a 
smile  according  to  the  guests.  She  had  a  pleasant  little 
laugh  for  Mrs.  Gates  and  Barbara,  "So  glad  to  see 
you,  dear,  and  little  Barbara  .  .  .";  then  beams  fell 
somewhat  less  intensely  on  succeeding  ones,  still  further 
paled  at  Mesdames  Schwab  and  Watts,  who  were  con- 
sidered rather  earthy. 


WASTE  87 

Mrs.  Schwab  and  Mrs.  Watts  were  sisters.  They 
were  also  personalities,  the  former  being  Mrs.  D.  F. 
Schwab,  whose  husband  was  editor  and  owner  of 
Mapleton's  Town  Crier,  and,  don't  forget,  a  joint  owner 
of  "the  cheapest  store  in  town."  The  sheet  was  some- 
times termed  affectionately  the  "Augur"  —  but  figure  it 
yourself.  Mrs.  Schwab's  husband  was  also  the  manag- 
ing and  chief  contributing  editors,  described  men's  meet- 
ings, knew  how  to  set  type,  and  read  proof  when  they 
were  busy.  He  was  it.  But  being  a  jack-of- trades  the 
proof  of  the  paper  was  not  in  his  reading,  so  he  usually 
confined  himself  to  other  duties,  abandoning  the  proof 
to  care  of  itself  or  to  that  of  William  Smith,  the  boy, 
which  was  very  much  the  same. 

The  Madame  Editor  wrote  "society"  when  present. 
Even  now,  as  Mrs.  Watts  allowed,  you  saw  her  gazing 
fixedly  at  someone's  crepe  de  chine,  and  visioned  in  the 
Crier  of  next  Wednesday  that  the  house  was  taste- 
fully fixed  up  with  roses,  trailing  autumn  leaves,  and 
that  the  whilom  well-known  matron,  Mrs.  Rumble- 
Bumble,  had  been  among  the  guests  from  out  of  town, 
quite  tastefully  got  up  in  rich  black  taffeta  or  old  point 
lace. 

Mrs.  Schwab  and  sister  approached  the  hostess' 
throne.  Mrs.  S.  was  visiting,  likewise  the  mate  of 
T.  Ephraim  Brodribb  Watts.  Folks  sometimes  short- 
ened it  to  Mrs.  "Tattler"  Watts,  quite  in  the  homely 
fashion  of  the  place.  As  they  reached  Mrs.  Hunter 
they  started  to  settle.  Mrs.  Hunter  said,  "How  do 
you  do?  Why,  how  do  you  do?  Go  right  into  the  room 
at  the  end  of  the  hall.  You  will  find  the  others  there." 
Mrs.  Hunter  was  efficient,  charmingly. 

There  were  first  polite  preliminaries.  Soon  they  all 
got  down  to  gossip,  then  the  nice  refreshments.  Per- 
sons chattered  of  the  heaps  of  poverty  there  were  that 


88  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

fall,  and  had  some  more  ice  cream;  and  dwelt  on  all 
the  woolen  things  (in  barrel)  the  church  had  sent 
only  the  week  before  to  certain  of  the  Bengalese,  in 
warmest  India.  Please  recollect  that  in  our  little  aris- 
tocracy we  have  not  got  before  us  either  Paris  or 
Vienna,  neither  New  York.  Provincials  are  not  magni- 
ficoes  who  hail  from  Pennsylvania  Avenue  —  Mount 
Vernon  Place  —  Fifth  Avenue  or  Rittenhouse.  They 
are  neither  bad,  nor  very  interesting.  Indeed  they  may 
but  do  their  best;  sometimes  they  just  don't  compre- 
hend, themselves,  what  they  have  square  before  them. 

Nearly  everyone  was  there,  and  Mrs.  Bodeheaver  was 
talking  forcefully  with  Mrs.  Lucy  Sparks  about  the 
theatre,  Mrs.  Sparks  being  advanced  and  Mrs.  Bode- 
heaver conservative.  Poor  Mrs.  Sparks  wasn't  even 
attractively  homely,  but  she  was  very  vigorous.  She 
owned  a  weakness  for  modern  breakfast  foods  and 
Harrold  Chalmers-Sobb,  modem  mushmaker.  She 
had  even  been  suspected  of  being  "suffrage."  You 
could  see,  now,  that  Mrs.  Bodeheaver  did  not  approve 
of  the  theatre  —  but  they  all  agreed  that  it  was  ex- 
cellent weather  for  the  time  of  the  year,  of  course;  and 
one  lady  said  her  husband  had  just  returned  from  a 
hunting  trip  up  near  the  Moosehead's  source.  He  said 
the  woods  were  really  charming,  and  that  as  he  passed 
through  the  Fork  he  had  encountered  one  of  the 
strangest  funeral  processions  he  had  ever  been  fortunate 
enough  to  meet,  don't  you  know.  It  was  just  a  man  and 
a  woman,  with  two  small  boys  and  a  minister.  Oh,  yes, 
there  was  a  pine  box  on  a  wagon,  but  the  mourners 
walked.    He  told  her  they  must  have  been  quite  poor. 

Mrs.  Gates  was  telling  of  the  opera  she  expected  to 
visit  in  the  Metropolis  next  week,  and  anyway,  she 
really  did  not  recall  much  of  the  Fork.  Yes,  she  had 
been  there  once,  but  it  was  terribly  dirty.     It  was 


WASTE  89 

nicer  to  think  of  it  as  motors  or  a  little  jaunt  abroad; 
which  was  perfectly  sensible  in  the  fact,  since  the 
Fork  had  seldom  varied  from  an  annual  return  of 
thirty-five  per  cent  in  twenty  years.  When  it  had,  it 
was  higher.  Judicious  timber  investing  at  the  tradi- 
tional dollar-per-acre  did  sometimes  grow  an  awfully 
pleasant  net. 

Children  were  merry,  and  the  rest  kept  comfortable. 
They  made  a  pretty  picture.  There  were  tall  ladies 
with  short  hats,  short  women  with  tall  hats,  and  stout 
persons  with  no  hats.  All  were  happy  in  themselves  or 
pitying  some  neighbor.  The  children  looked  very 
attractive,  and  Barbara  danced  several  times  with 
Master  Hunter.  Everyone  had  a  delightful  time,  and  it 
was  really  too  bad  they  had  to  go,  "but,  you  know  how 
it  is,  husband  home,  baby  to  kiss  good  night,  and  these 
children.  .  .  ." 

The  ladies  began  to  say  good-by.  In  time  the  last 
motor  had  chugged  down  the  drive  and  Mesdames 
Watts  and  Schwab  were  trudging  chattily  from  out.  As 
Mrs.  Watts  exclaimed,  it  was  "a  memory!" 

Houses  on  State  Street  showed  their  lights,  while  in 
the  little  streets  men  slept.  Up  in  Slab  Fork  they  may 
have  stirred  uneasily,  for  night  was  partly  gone;  then 
fell  to  dreaming  of  another  day. 


XIII 

The  Very  Reverend  Isaac  Sykes  was  a  fetish  to  his 
flock.  However  much  the  members  of  his  fold  were 
wont  to  differ  on  the  Canticles,  they  were  agreed  on 
that.    He  was  a  harmlessly  good  man,  and  preached  as 


90  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

you  liked  it;  saying,  to  an  unpleased  few,  "And  what 
the  mission  of  the  church  if  not  to  bring  great  comfort 
to  the  flock?"  Which  was  unanswerable,  and  saved 
the  Rev.  Isaac  a  vast  deal  of  trouble. 

There  was  a  cold  morning  in  the  white  months  when 
for  one  day  the  clouds  lifted,  the  sun  smiled  brightly 
if  not  warmly,  and  the  snow  came  not.  The  maple  rows 
wore  icy  frosting,  and  from  their  myriad  points  shot 
out  a  million  spears  of  light  to  give  a  welcome  to  the 
morning  and  to  a  few  poor  snow-birds  which  came 
and  for  a  moment  perched  there.  There  had  been  snow 
and  hail,  and  rain  and  freezing  on  the  night  before,  but 
the  morning  was  clear  and  you  imagined,  if  you  thought 
of  it  at  all,  that  up  in  the  great  woods  North  it  was 
cold.  Arch  Baker  and  his  old  bay  team  had  come  out 
early  and  run  their  side-wind  plow  first  up,  then  down, 
the  coated  walks  of  State  Street,  next  changed  to  Main, 
and  cleared  the  piled-up  drifts  from  Col.  Hunter's 
to  the  church.  The  poorer  streets  they  saw  to  after, 
though  dwellers  rose  and  went  out  earlier. 

There  were  a  number  of  churches,  and  none  of  them 
could  pay  expenses.  A  few,  like  Reverend  Sykes',  had 
wealthy  members.  They  made  out.  They  grouped  to- 
gether with  a  nice  precision  like  New  England.  The 
churches  were  not  ambitious,  but  structures  were 
greater  than  congregations.  Once  there  had  been  a 
single  strong,  fine  church;  fell  a  day  when  there  was 
too  much  Creed  for  one,  not  long  enough  prayers  for 
another,  and  when  old  Deacon  Stinson  had  had  the 
leading  seat  for  mercy  knows  how  much  too  long;  which 
netted  many  little  churches  standing  in  a  row.  The 
Very  Reverend  Isaac  saved  souls  of  the  better  class. 

The  wooden  plow  had  gone  and  snow  now  slanted  up 
from  the  walk  to  the  banks  on  either  side,  with  a  foot- 
way in  the  center  eighteen  inches  wide  and  not  more 


WASTE  91 

than  half  as  deep  in  partly  trampled  snow,  so  that 
those  for  whom  the  day  was  not  too  cold,  the  hour  too 
early,  or  the  sun  too  bright  had  picked  their  way  along 
to  church. 

Under  the  agued  touch  of  Zekiah  Bailey,  who  taught 
weekdays  and  pedalled  Sunday,  the  uncertain  notes  of 
the  organ  filled  to  a  great  and  partly  tuneful  fulness 
the  high-gabled  sanctuary  of  the  First  Church,  falling 
dully  upon  the  ears  of  the  Rev.  Sykes  as  he  hugged 
himself  in  his  pulpit.  The  head  was  bowed,  in  thought 
or  else  because  the  meal  his  wife  Phoenicia  had  lately 
fixed  had  turned  to  lead.  Stained-glass  sunlight 
trickled  in,  and  a  transient  ray  slanted  across  the 
church  to  fall  immediately  upon  the  high  bald  head  of 
Ezra  Bodeheaver,  who  sat  with  Mrs.  Bodheaver  well  up 
in  the  seats  of  the  mighty.  As  Ezra  himself  said,  "Re- 
ligion is  what  you  make  it.  It  is  mighty,  and  must 
avail."  Ezra  was  packed  with  good  things,  and  if  a 
word  escaped  him  he  at  once  employed  another  vocable 
which  sounded  like  one. 

The  Gates  were  prominent  in  church,  that  is,  they 
filled  front  seats  for  which  he  paid  spot  cash.  He  was 
"a  godly  man,"  as  Mr.  Sykes  had  sometimes  thought 
aloud;  they  were  all  godly  men  and  women.  No  doubt 
Reverend  Sykes  implied  that  were  every  one  as  godly 
as  this  eminent  pew-holder  he  might  very  well  devour 
more  salary,  with  less  vegetable  and  culinary  free-wills. 
He  had  tastes  himself. 

Mrs.  Gates  always  rustled  in  first,  Barbara  followed 
starchily,  and  Mr.  Gates  heavily  closed  the  pew,  frock- 
coated,  terrible  and  formal  for  the  day,  Mr.  Gates 
dressed  well.  So  did  the  other  Gates,  and  no  one  had  a 
better  right.  It  was  even  so  this  morning.  Barbara 
was  very  pretty  as  she  sat  between  them  looking  very 
rightly  straight  ahead  to  where,  among  the  little  gusts 


92  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

of  air  which  eddied  through  the  church,  a  multitude  of 
tiny  candles  flamed  and  flickered  beside  the  one  great 
taper  which  burnt  with  dignity  and  steady  fire  beside 
the  pulpit. 

The  organ  ceased  from  troubling,  Mr,  Sykes  pulled 
down  his  vest.  Having  done  so,  he  b-r-r-d  twice  or 
thrice  impressively,  arose,  and  read  a  hymn.  It  was  a 
long  hymn,  and  he  read  all  of  it.  "We  will  sing,"  he 
amended,  "the  first  two  and  the  last  three  verses." 
Zekiah,  who  high  up  behind  them  in  his  loft  had  cut 
in  once  upon  the  Reverend  Isaac's  reading  with  a 
little  tremulo,  now  pulled  his  stops,  the  first  soprano 
lost  her  music  but  rediscovered  it  again,  and  the  House 
of  Worship  sounded  with  the  clamour  of  their  singing. 

Much  of  the  very  fair-sized  congregation  sang,  loud 
or  faintly  with  their  consciences  or  sense  of  hearing. 
Mr.  Gates  was  strictly  bass,  Mrs.  Gates  trebled,  and 
Barbara  piped.  The  choir  was  composed  of  volun- 
teers. They  had  made  no  reservations,  and  they  did 
all  they  could.  Their  efforts  were  abetted  stoutly  by 
Mr.  Bodeheaver,  whose  singing  was  a  factor.  Once 
upon  a  day  a  bad  boy,  long  abandoned  by  our  good,  had 
suddenly  repented  and  occupied  a  seat  up  front  for 
near  a  month.  He  had  only  come  to  learn  to  sing  like 
Mr.  Bodeheaver.    Then  he  relapsed. 

After  the  hymn  of  praise  they  sat  upon  hard  seats  or 
knelt  on  padded  stools  and  throbbing  foreheads  while 
Rev.  Isaac  prayed.  His  was  no  half-hearted  praying. 
He  prayed  long,  and  strong,  and  his  repertoire  covered 
the  gamut  of  total  human  emotion.  He  always  in- 
cluded abject  thanks  for  "giving  us  everything,  better 
than  we  can  ask  or  even  think." 

His  prayers  were  thorough,  and  they  were  amply  re- 
inforced by  the  sermon  which  descended  heavily  upon 
his  auditors  soon  afterward.    He  did  not  use  the  ser- 


WASTE  93 

monette,  God  being  too  busy  for  trifles.  Having  cast 
out  his  text,  something  on  brotherly  love  since  Chris- 
mas  was  nearing,  he  began  to  mull  over  the  words, 
half  to  himself,  before  starting  to  ravel  up  the  thread 
of  his  discourse  and  assail  the  pleasant  weaknesses  of 
man.  He  did  so  well,  and  to  the  end  that  nearly 
everyone  among  them  offered  praise  unasked  that  he 
was  not  as  were  most  others.  Becoming  dig- 
nifiedly  enthusiastic,  he  plied  the  tale  of  the  Good 
Samaritan  and  of  the  great  majority  whom  public 
opinion  even  then  encouraged  to  pass  on  the  other 
side.  He  talked  as  it  was  then;  he  brought  it  down  to 
now.  The  congregation  felt  a  slight  uneasy  itching  — 
they  need  not  have  —  until  he  told  of  how,  long  years 
before,  he,  unknown,  unknowing,  had  come  to  them 
a  stranger,  to  minister  unto  their  needs.  And  they  had 
taken  him  in,  into  their  homes,  their  hearts,  their 
lives. 

"  *As  ye  have  done  it  unto  the  least  of  these.  .  .  .'" 
And  people,  his  people,  smiled,  exhaled  "Lord  love  us 
all,"  and  knew  that  they  were  good. 

This  being  done  nothing  more  remained  to  be  said,  as 
the  sermon  had  previously  been  dispensed  in  the  first, 
second,  third  and  fourth  parts.  After  which  the  collec- 
tion was  taken,  and  there  came  a  spontaneous  solo  while 
the  older  and  graver  in  their  midst  passed  up  and  down 
the  aisles,  and  Mr.  Bodeheaver  made  change  from  the 
plate.  He  never  made  a  mistake,  that  is,  he  never  in 
haste  gave  more  than  intended.  Another  h3mMi,  and 
the  blessing  of  Sykes  fell  over  them. 

Zekiah  produced  a  march.  Together  they  arose 
and  passed  out.  The  minister  reserved  a  handshake 
and  good-morning  for  each,  to  which  were  added  sweet 
words  of  their  own  anent  his  sermon.  Mrs.  Gates 
liked  it  particularly.    She  as  much  as  said  so. 


94  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

"It  almost  took  you  out  of  yourself,  you  know;  made 
you  think  of  those  who  are  not  so  fortunate." 

Mr.  Gates  lent  smiling  confirmation,  and  the  minister 
agreed  to  come  to  them  for  dinner,  soon.  Mrs.  Sykes 
did  not  go  out  much.  Without,  all  chatted  for  a 
moment  with  the  ones  they  knew,  friends  met  and 
neighbors  gossiped,  and  some  strangers  who  were  there 
fetched  an  escape  quite  easily. 

Mrs.  Gates  told  Barbara  to  stay  for  Sunday  School, 
which  the  poor  child  didn't  fancy.  Her  class  was 
taught  by  Mrs.  Rev.  Sykes,  who  told  them  horror 
tales  of  foreign  missionaries  who  were  come  upon,  per- 
haps at  church,  and  buried  neck-deep  in  the  burning 
sands.  And  left  there,  too,  unless  they  gave  their  word 
as  Christians  to  be  heathen.  Which  foolishly  they 
didn't,  but  ended  by  having  their  heads  sanded  up 
too.  Her  instruction  was  effective,  with  a  moral.  Bar- 
bara used  to  have  cold  chills. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gates  left  and  motored  to  the  Post 
Office,  well  and  easy  in  body  and  soul.  His  was  the 
vista  of  a  fresh  successful  "deal,"  she  saw  a  picture  of 
herself  —  a  hat  just  new,  a  suit  that  was  not  old  — 
and  both  were  greatly  cheered  and  happy.  For  a 
moment  was  come  contentment.  They  could  not  think 
of  anything  additional  that  they  wanted. 

In  the  mail  was  news  from  Larrabie.  He  wrote  that 
it  was  cold  up  at  the  Fork,  and  with  a  bit  of  suffering 
among  the  people.  Himself  hard,  he  recommended 
Gates  do  something:  give  them  a  little  added  pay,  or 
have  some  food  and  clothing  sent. 

Which,  upon  reading,  Mr.  Gates  showed  to  his  wife 
and  she  said, 

"I  don't  believe,  Holden  dear,  it's  really  half  as  bad, 
do  you?  They  always  do  exaggerate  so  terribly.  I 
can't  imagine  anything  like  that  myself." 


WASTE  96 

With  a  dead  but  popular  Queen  of  France  she  might 
have  added,  "Since  they  have  no  bread,  why  don't 
they  eat  cake?" 

Instead  Emma  Gates  glanced  hopelessly  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  heavy  double  panes  closing  a  splendid  oriel, 
which  caught  the  little  chilly  gusts  that  whistled  com- 
fortably outside.  A  few  starry  flakes  fell  on  the  thick 
plate-glass,  mirrored  their  crystals  for  an  instant,  then 
thawed  away.    It  is  good  to  have  a  home. 

Gates  waved  his  hand  good-humoredly. 

"Don't  bother,  it  isn't.  Suppose  it  were,  my  dear? 
Old  winter's  all  right!  Why,  I've  seen  men  work  just 
for  the  sake  of  keeping  warm." 

Barbara  came  home.  They  called  to  Steven  to  re- 
stock the  grate,  an  open  blaze  looked  so  cheerful,  and 
all  sat  down  to  a  good  chicken  dinner  —  with  biscuit. 


XIV 

Everyone  sa)rs  and  no  man  denies  that  the  proof 
of  the  gardener  sprouts  in  his  garden,  the  test  of  the 
doctor  lies  in  his  pill.  Now  conceive  the  hand-picked 
charges  of  Miss  Brownscombe  emerging  from  their 
desks  and  blackboards  armed  with  Greek  enough 
to  build  a  fire  or  cook  an  omelet.  Indeed, 
you  learned  to  eat  your  omelet,  not  to  cook  it. 
In  better  channels  the  diploma  of  Miss  Brownscombe 
was  the  blue  ribbon  of  a  horse  show. 

Barbara  Gates  spent  with  that  teacher  eight  out  of 
thirteen  years.  The  little  girl  who  went  to  school  by 
limousine  became  a  larger  girl  who  went  to  school  in 
a  new  limousine.  Her  figure  lengthened  and  filled.  Her 
face  took  on  a  longer  shape,  then  turned  to  oval.    She 


96  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

was  enough  grown  up  at  thirteen  years  so  that  she  was 
no  longer  very  awkward  as  a  child.  Her  Uttle-girl 
prettiness  had  not  left;  it  promised  something  yet 
prettier.  Her  cheeks  were  very  round  and  red,  her 
eyes  were  deep  and  dusky,  and  two  long  braids  of  hair, 
dark  brown  and  looking  very  soft,  fell  down  her  back 
together.  The  face  was  sweet,  but  had  a  shadow  of  the 
petulance  which  always  was  a  part  of  Mrs.  Gates. 

Mrs.  Gates,  the  girl,  had  once  been  poor,  sincerely 
sweet,  and  simply  happy.  Mrs.  Gates,  the  woman,  was 
wealthy,  disagreeable  (at  home),  and  chronically  un- 
happy. One  fancied  she  had  bit  too  well  of  the  apple 
of  life,  expecting  only  sweet;  and  it  had  turned  out 
sour. 

Mrs.  Gates'  body  had  fattened  with  ample  years. 
She  reckoned  her  days  by  engagements,  and  rested 
heavily  on  maids  and  soda  mints.  Her  soul,  or  some- 
thing, had  atrophied,  was  working  badly.  Her  mind 
had  left  deep  wells  of  girlhood  and  lay  upon  a  shoal  of 
thin  meanderings.  Neither  head  nor  heart  was  guide. 
When  Mrs.  Hunter  coughed,  she  sneezed.  Poverty? 
She  loathed  it,  so  helpless,  horrible,  a  thing  that  lay 
against  low  ground. 

Emma  Gates  possessed  a  single  keen,  fine  love.  It 
was  herself.  She  had  perhaps  one  real,  kind  liking. 
That  was  Barbara.  Her  husband  had  been  something, 
originally.  She  understood  him.  He  might  have  been 
a  worthy,  ordinary  man  had  not  Mrs.  G.  been  jealous. 
Ambitions  outstripped  extravagance,  but  they  perforce 
encouraged  his  resourcefulness.  Emma,  in  brief,  sup- 
plied the  bitter  leaven  of  their  life,  the  Josephine  of 
our  Napoleon. 

Before  they  were  married  Gates  had  believed  some 
men  born  clever,  and  that  a  few  women  became  so,  but 
very  few.     His  exception,  or  sweetheart  —  save  the 


WASTE  97 

term  —  could  have  lived  on  fifteen  dollars  a  week,  well. 
Fifty  thousand  could  not  answer  for  his  wife.  He  was 
forever  set  to  scratching  for  some  more.  All-in-all 
Gates  succeeded,  and  his  wife  preceded.  Sometimes 
she  pushed,  others  she  clawed.  Gates  had  been  born 
to  be  well-off,  and  Gates'  wife  loved  him  for  it.  Be- 
sides, had  he  not,  she  would  have  been  very  unhappy. 
Some  folks  claimed  they  were  well  above  par.  We  shall 
not  dub  them  typical  because  they  are  real. 

The  wife  could  be  generous.  Such  as  she  had  to 
spare  she  gladly  showered  on  Barbara.  The  parent 
vine  was  strong,  and  this  should  be  a  single  precious 
graft.  Barbara  after  all  did  rather  well.  She  was  yet 
chiefly  child.  She  feared  her  father  and  studied  her 
mother,  but  she  loved  the  old  nurse  who  had  so  cheer- 
fully put  up  with  her  when  she  was  small,  and  squally, 
and  spilled  her  food  and  wiped  her  spoon  on  plain  old 
Hattie's  sleeve,  and  nearly  died  of  croup. 

Now  that  Barbara  was  so  advanced,  Mrs.  Gates  was 
for  Hattie's  going  out  forthwith,  but  the  little  girl 
begged  not,  and  Mr.  Gates  said,  "No,  let  her  have  her 
way."  So  poor  ancient  Hattie  lingered  on  in  place  of 
a  "foreign  companion."  No  one  else  had  the  latter, 
though,  which  made  it  very  desirable.  Hattie  was  so 
funny,  plain,  old-fashioned.  The  poor  old  thing  was 
real.  But  Hattie  had  to  leave,  with  Barbara,  that  fall. 
Barbara  would  go  to  school,  and  Hattie  —  she  would 
depart.  Better  so,  for  her  little  girl  was  all  she  under- 
stood, and  loved,  in  the  excellent  home  of  Gates. 

Spring  had  popped  in  one  day,  and  found  that  Bar- 
bara was  fourteen.  It  was  time  to  graduate.  Many 
were  in  attendance.  There  was  a  multitude  of  parents 
with  innumerable  friends,  and  as  if  that  were  not 
enough  the  Rev.  Sykes. 

There  was  also  Miss  Brownscombe;  and  the  Rev. 


98  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

Sykes  had  made  a  prayer.  Their  amen  was  honest, 
because  he  had  done.  That,  though,  had  been  only 
a  beginning,  and  there  had  come  fine  arts  and  nice 
sciences.  One  of  the  oldest,  Hermione  Smith,  gave 
them  a  reading  upon  "The  Bishop's  Candlesticks." 
Bernadette  Dennis,  who  played  so  well  for  thirteen,  had 
rendered  something  of  "Samson  and  Delilah,"  no  one 
was  really  sure  what  part.  Miss  Brownscombe  her- 
self, in  a  few  well-chosen  words,  had  given  them  a 
"short  appreciative  talk,"  to  borrow  from  the  Crier. 
And  she  called  them,  one-and-all,  the  very  best  classes 
of  her  school,  which  was  a  counterpart  of  each  year's 
graduation. 

Afterward  there  were  diplomas,  good  times  and  con- 
gratulations no  end,  with  tea;  and  Mrs.  Editor  Schwab, 
who  had  got  in  officially,  used  cream  and  lemon  both 
while  babbling  confidentially  to  Mr.  Sykes  upon  some 
higher  types  of  education.  Barbara  was  pleasantly  ex- 
cited, and  her  mother  quite  as  proud  of  daughter  as  of 
new  silk  dress  containing  same.  That  latter  the  best 
modiste  of  Mapleton,  good  Mme.  Flaherty,  had  made. 

Gates  was  at  home  for  dinner.  He  never  refused 
his  daughter,  and  had  kissed  her  to  show  his  pleasure. 
People  called  Gates  "cold";  they  didn't  know  him. 
After  dinner  the  Gates  talked  for  awhile  to  each  other. 
Mr.  Gates  went  out  when  able.  Tonight  he  felt  a  cold, 
and  Mrs.  Gates  asked  Barbara  to  play,  for  the  child 
had  been  afforded  music  and  gained  the  usual  stage. 
But  Barbara  was  tired,  and  when  the  old  nurse  passed 
through  the  drawing-room,  following  her  dinner,  Bar- 
bara had  run  and  slipped  a  hand  in  Hattie's.  She 
waved  a  kiss  to  the  others,  and  they  went  upstairs 
together. 

Years  before  this  Hattie  had  formed  the  evil  pre- 
cedent of  story-telling.     Rare  bed-times  without  a 


WASTE  99 

story  meant  the  woman  was  away.  She  told  good 
stories  evidently,  for  the  first  was  followed  by  many. 
A  thread  of  half-similitude  ran  in  the  warp  and  woof, 
but  it  did  not  worry  the  child. 

Hattie's  creations  were  many-named.  There  was 
"The  Enchanting  Cat,"  "The  Homely  Princess,"  "The 
Cross  Young  Man,"  "The  Wretched  Rabbit,"  "The 
House  that  Never  Grew  Up,"  and  "The  Rich  Little 
Boy  with  a  Hole  in  His  Pocket."  Hattie  said  they 
were  "all  true  fairy  stories,"  and  who  indeed  ever 
heard  of  a  tale  beginning  "Now  once  upon  a  time  .  .  ." 
that  there  wasn't  a  tame,  good  fairy  or  a  hunch-backed, 
crabbed  old  elf  concealed  somewhere  about?  And 
everyone  knows  how  very,  very  real  they  are. 

Barbara  had  not  grown  up,  though  done  with  Miss 
Brownscombe  and  nearly  with  braids.  Another  year 
would  see  her  in  another  place  than  Mapleton,  no 
Hattie,  and  no  .  .  . 

"Hattie,  tell  me  the  story  of  'The  Rich  Little  Boy 
with  a  Hole  in  His  Pocket.'    Please!" 

"My!  child,  you've  got  too  old  for  my  poor  stories. 
You've  heard  old  Hattie  tell  her  fairy  tales  a  million- 
hundred  times.  And  /  don't  think  she  tells  them  very 
well  now,  either.    You  don't  want  stories  tonight." 

"I  do,  I  do.  Please,  please!  Hattie,  tell  me  the  story 
of  'The  Rich  Little  Boy.'  " 

The  first  "please"  set  the  old  heart  caving  in;  the 
second  completed  her  confusion.  Victory  was  com- 
plete, and  Hattie  made  shift  to  capitulate. 

"Well,  child,  if  you  must.  .  .  . 

"Now  once  upon  a  time,  oh,  a  long  time  ago,  there 
was  a  very  poor  young  man." 

"How  poor,  Hattie?" 

"Now,  Barbara,  don't  interrupt  or  I'll  never  get  it 
told.    There  was  a  very  poor  young  man,  so  poor  that 


100  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

lie  had  nothing  in  the  world,  nothing  in  the  whole, 
whole  world  but  his  own  round,  honest  face,  a  heart 
that  was  happy  when  the  birds  sang,  and  two  large 
eyes  that  saw  sunshine,  and  the  trees  wave  in  the 
wind." 

"Didn't  he  have  anything  else,  at  all?" 

"Well,  he  did  have  a  Mother  and  a  Father,  yes,  and 
a  little  Brother,  too,  but  they  were  even  poorer  than 
the  poor  young  man.  His  Father's  heart  was  very  cold 
and  tired,  and  his  Mother's  eyes  were  closed  so  that 
she  couldn't  see  the  sunshine  and  the  trees;  and  his 
little  Brother's  face  was  thin  and  pale;  he  had  no  rosy 
cheeks." 

"Why  was  it  pale,  Hattie?" 

"You  know  well  enough  why  it  was,  child,  you've 
heard  it  so  many  times." 

"Yes,  but  I  want  to  know  now." 

"Well,  then,  if  you  must  have  it,  the  little  one's  face 
was  thin  and  pale,  because,  no  matter  how  hard  the 
Father  worked,  he  cotdd  not  get  enough  to  give  them 
all  the  food  and  clothes  and  wood  they  had  to  have  to 
keep  them  well  and  warm. 

"But  the  poor  young  boy  grew  tall  and  strong,  for 
he  worked,  and  he  walked  in  the  woods  and  the  fields. 
The  work  made  his  heart  beat  fast,  and  the  sun  and 
the  wind  left  color  in  his  cheeks;  while  the  fresh,  cool 
air  brought  a  song  to  his  lips,  and  sometimes  made  him 
glad. 

"Now  when  he  was  just  fifteen  he  went  away." 

"Away  from  all  his  people?" 

"Yes,  far  away,  to  the  Land  of  Promise,  for  his 
Father  grew  weak  and  old,  and  his  Mother  fell  ill  and 
was  blind,  and  the  little  Brother  had  no  one  at  all  to 
give  him  what  a  dear  little  boy  should  have. 

"The  poor ,  young  man  was  a  long  time  gone,  so 


WASTE  101 

long  indeed  that  his  Mother  and  Father  and  weak 
little  Brother  thought  surely  he'd  forgotten  them,  and 
they  were  very  sad.  He  was  getting  that  way  him- 
self, for  the  Land  of  Promise  was  a  far  way  off,  and  his 
legs  couldn't  carry  him  half  as  fast  as  he  really  wanted 
to  go. 

"But  one  day  he  saw  It  when  he  'woke,  and  it  was 
very  beautiful.  The  trees  bore  golden  fruit,  there  was 
also  a  river  of  silver;  and  the  dew  on  the  flowers  was 
pearls  and  diamonds.  He  took  one  of  the  apples,  and  a 
little  of  the  running  silver,  and  picked  some  of  the  shiny 
jewels  from  the  buttercups  and  daisies.  He  didn't 
want  to  take  too  many,  for  he  thought  there  might  be 
other  little  boys  like  him.  He  didn't  know  that  every 
morning  left  new  diamonds  on  the  grasses  and  the 
flowers,  and  there  were  always  apples,  while  the  river 
never,  never  lost  its  silver. 

"He  didn't  want  to  take  too  many,  and  besides  he 
only  had  one  pocket  in  his  coat.  He  filled  it,  oh!  so 
carefully,  then  took  one  last  long  look,  so  that  he  would 
not  forget  this  wonder-place.  The  very  next  morning, 
very  bright  and  ever  so  early,  he  was  off  and  away  — 
to  the  Land  of  Real.  He  went  quickly,  even  quicker 
than  he'd  come,  for  he  was  going  home! 

"It  was  still  a  day's  journey  away  when  one  night 
he  fell  down  to  rest,  tired,  and  lonely,  and  lame.  As  he 
took  off  his  coat  to  make  a  pillow  for  his  head,  he 
found  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  Hattie,  what  did  he  find?" 

"He  found  that  his  pocket  was  empty!" 

"Oh,  did  he?" 

"Yes,  it  was  empty,  and  in  place  of  the  golden  apple, 
his  lovely  silver,  and  all  the  jewelled  dew  he  found  a 
hole  —  only  a  small,  mean  hole. 

"The  night  was  dark,  and  he  lay  very  still  on  the 


102  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

ground.  The  poor  lad,  he  cried.  He  cried  so  hard 
he  cried  himself  to  sleep. 

"But  in  his  sleep  a  hand  touched  his,  and  a  sweet 
voice  said  to  him, 

"  'Little  boy,  why  in  the  world  are  you  crying?' 

"And  he  said,  though  he  couldn't  see  a  thing  and  it 
seemed  as  if  he  still  slept  on,  'I  cry  because  I've  lost 
my  gold.' 

"The  sweet  voice  said,  again, 

"  'Why,  how  can  you  be  so  selfish?  You  are  very 
young,  and  strong.  Some  time  you  can  get  some  more. 
Were  you  crying  just  for  that?' 

"But  the  little  boy  said,  'No.'  He  cried  to  think 
of  his  poor  old  Mother  and  tired  Father,  and  the  very 
little  boy  at  home.  And  then  he  saw  the  Fairy's  face 
close  down  to  his,  sweet  and  happy  it  was,  and  very 
beautiful. 

"She  kissed  him,  stretched  out  a  starry  wand,  and  he 
woke  up  to  find  that  it  was  day.  His  tears  were  dry, 
and  in  his  coat  he  felt  his  apple  and  the  jewels,  all  the 
silver,  too,  and  the  little  mean  hole  was  gone. 

"That  night  he  reached  his  home,  after  all.  The 
Father  left  his  work,  and  smiled;  the  little  Brother's 
face  grew  rosy  once  again;  and  when  his  Mother  cried, 
the  tears  of  happiness  and  joy  ran  out  her  eyes  and 
opened  them,  and  she  could  see. 

"So  the  Poor  Little  Boy  was  a  Rich  Young  Man.  He 
never  left  home  any  more,  and  all  of  them  were  happy, 
ever  after. 

'^Then  what  did  the  young  man  do?" 

"I  don't  know,  child;  do  go  to  sleep." 

"I  wish  I  knew.  I'd  like  to  be  a  good  fairy  like  that; 
now  wouldn't  you,  Hattie?" 

Old  Hattie  devoured  the  little  crumpled  figure  in 
the  big  soft  bed,  and  lost  an  honest  tear. 


WASTE  103 

Downstairs,  Mr.  Gates  had  just  subdued  his  wife  at 
pinochle,  and  was  having  an  excellent  temper.  Mrs. 
Gates  called  a  maid,  and  ordered  a  bit  of  lunch. 
Hattie  prepared  it.  The  other  servants  sat  around  to 
have  a  word  on  Gates,  and  Mrs.  Gates.  While  she 
worked,  Hattie  defended  them.  When  she  had  finished, 
the  maid  served  and  was  thanked. 

The  sherry  was  good,  the  plush-filled  chair  was  com- 
fortable, Gates'  world  was  fair.  He  promised  to  look 
at  a  brand-new  car  in  the  morning,  and  his  wife  kissed 
him. 

XV 

SoMe  nights  thereafter  a  little  part  of  Mapleton  was 
at  its  Founders'  Club.  Yes,  Mapleton  possessed  a  city 
club,  "Just  large  enough,  you  know."  They  were  din- 
ing. Later  they  would  dance,  a  party  being  given  by 
the  Turners.  Among  the  diners,  later  on  the  dancers, 
were  the  Gates  and  Barbara.  The  T.  Watson  Hunters 
sat  at  dinner  with  them,  Fred  included.  Fred  and 
Barbara  were  excellent  friends.  They  "went  together." 
The  boy  was  sixteen,  beginning  to  be  a  deal  of  a  man, 
so  that  girls  of  his  age  sometimes  criticized  and  talked 
about  him  and  parents  looked  approvingly  upon  his 
first  long  pants. 

Mapleton  was  unaccustomed  to  surprises.  Accord- 
ingly, its  privileged  and  curious  were  always  mildly 
intrigued  to  see  a  Hunter  dining  with  a  Gates.  Despite 
ingrained  disparities,  Mrs.  Hunter  and  Mrs.  Gates 
were  not  bad  friends,  but  their  husbands  had  never  been 
close.    Perhaps  it  was  for  the  children,  this  evening. 

No  one  had  ever  threatened  the  Colonel  with  being 
progressive.  He  was  very  polite,  but  insisted  none  the 
less  on  being  and  acting  conservative.     Yet  he  was 


104  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

wholesomely  concerned  with  broad-gauge  topics  of  the 
day.  His  was  a  birthright  from  the  old  ideal,  to  serve. 
Gates  never  said  so,  but  you  rather  fancied  he  ex- 
pected service. 

The  dinner,  though,  was  very  pleasant,  and  the  ladies 
dwelt  at  length  upon  some  splendid  people  they  had 
met,  from  Malvern,  via  a  recent  Bridge.  That  re- 
called the  party  old  Mrs.  Brown  was  giving,  Tuesday  of 
next  week.  Colonel  Hunter  mentioned  a  trifling  na- 
tional trouble  they  were  having,  and  wished  his  land 
with  one  great  mind. 

"Confound  it,  sir,  the  needs  of  the  times  demand  we 
take  some  thought  of  other  things  than  money- 
grubbing.  We  have  a  country  rich  in  great  resources, 
populous  with  people,  noble  in  its  possibilities. 

*In  Europe,  sir  .  .  ." 

While  Barbara  and  Fred  were  chatting  volubly 
enough,  and  Mr.  Watts  came  by  and  told  a  well-loved 
story.  He  was  apprehended  by  Mrs.  Watts,  who  tried 
to  execute  a  flanking  movement  on  them  all.  But  her 
attack  was  sadly  confounded  through  their  immediate 
departure  for  coffee  on  the  porch. 

The  sun  was  slipping  down.  Only  its  rosiness 
lingered,  to  hang  for  just  a  moment  on  the  town.  It 
touched  the  churches'  tops  with  gold  and  richly  shad- 
owed trees.  It  even  made  a  few  black  factory-stacks, 
far-off,  a  little  cheerful,  until  it  sank  and  left  a  haze  of 
broken  outlines  tree-etched  along  the  sky.  The  town 
was  gone,  yet  a  carriage  rattled  by  in  the  dust  and  the 
stones  of  the  streets,  a  dog  yelped  in  his  box,  and  a 
baby  cried  behind  some  far-off  darkened  window.  Talk 
barkened  long  enough  to  give  mellifluent  small  sounds 
of  the  night  a  little  turn;  a  bird  sang  as  it  found  its 
nest,  a  cricket  chirped  down  on  the  lawn,  a  lonely 
frog  called  somewhere  from  his  pool  down  by  the 


WASTE  106 

river.  Fireflies  rose  from  the  grass,  enough  it  seemed 
to  set  the  earth  afire;  winds  came  warmly  scented 
from  green  fields  and  sprouting  crops,  fresh  woods, 
ripening  fruit,  and  growing  corn.  And  it  held  the 
odors  of  nearer  at  hand,  from  the  roses  before  the 
Club.  The  maples  swung  a  little  in  the  soft  night  wind, 
and  tugged  hard  at  their  roots. 

Within  the  Club  a  fiddle  string  was  tightened  into 
tune,  the  key  of  the  piano  spoke,  and  then  an  orchestra 
began.  Barbara  and  Fred  prepared  to  leave  the  porch. 
Fred  was  saying  "May  I  have  the  honor  of  this  num- 
ber?" for  boy,  like  father,  was  enough  old-fashioned 
to  be  fair-mannered.  They  lost  no  time  in  getting  to 
the  floor,  but  some  was  lost  in  getting  around  it.  The 
ballroom's  size  was  usually  sufficient,  for  attendance 
was  restricted  to  the  Club  except  on  party  nights.  At 
such  times  congestion  was  great.  Feet  suffered,  gowns 
frayed. 

Through  the  wide  doors  of  the  hall  guests  still 
trailed  in,  men  in  black,  children  in  white,  women  in 
gauze  and  shiny  clap-trap,  all  talking,  all  merry,  all 
fretting  to  enter  into  the  joys  of  the  night.  Into  the 
Club,  up  to  the  cloak  room,  down  to  the  ballroom,  past 
the  receiving  Turners  they  went.  Then  portly  dames 
and  dashing  dandies  were  out  upon  the  floor.  And 
everywhere  was  motion,  noise,  and  light.  They  cir- 
cled the  ballroom  and  stopped  at  the  punch,  finished 
the  dancing  and  walked  to  the  porch.  The  merry 
Andrews  of  the  town  warmed  to  their  work,  and  puffy 
parties  strove  to  hold  their  own.  There  were  gray- 
haired  men;  young,  pretty  girls;  men  who  were  not  so 
gray,  and  boys;  ladies  who  were  not  so  young,  but 
dancing.  These  kept  on  moving  and  their  husbands 
swore,  but  softly. 

After  the  first  or  obligatory  number,  the  latter  all 


106  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

danced  from  choice.  While  sons  of  chivalry  endured 
mothers  of  fair  daughters,  fathers  danced  with  the 
daughters  themselves.  The  "Paul  Jones"  cared  for  all 
quite  well,  except  that  time  when  Ed.  Schwab's  partner, 
Filcher,  became  the  portion  of  sour  old  Mrs.  Cham- 
bers. This  worthy  woman,  large  of  self,  was  short  of 
temper.    She  likewise  favored  her  own  feet. 

S.  Filcher,  you  recollect,  saw  things  much  better 
near  at  hand.  He  was  also  new  to  dancing,  and  owned 
a  torpid  tendency  toward  mussing  collars.  Indeed, 
the  good  man's  hands  had  once  or  twice  left  faint,  dank 
spots  upon  a  partner's  back.  He  danced  because  Mrs. 
Filcher  danced;  her  relatives,  who  lived  with  Mrs. 
Filcher,  also  danced.  Which  was  excellent,  except 
that  many  reaped  where  she  had  sown.  Poor  Sammy 
always  counted  steps,  trying  to  watch  his  feet.  When 
reading,  a  book  or  a  paper  was  usually  stopped  at  his 
nose.  His  feet  being  sixty-five  inches  below,  he  peered 
toward  them  intensely.  This  caused  a  certain  in- 
erectness  when  in  motion.  Not  being  able  to  raise 
the  feet  above  a  foot  or  two,  he  bent  his  head  to  see 
them.  While  stooping  he  lost  the  crowd,  and  in  count- 
ing lost  track  of  all  else. 

It  worked  to  the  end  that  Mrs.  Chambers'  feet  were 
pften  counted  out,  and  Mrs.  Chambers'  back  came 
often  in  hard  contact  with  other  frames  and  shoulders. 
Though  not  a  heavy  man,  he  made  his  presence  felt. 
Mrs.  Chambers  quickly  groped  for  ways  and  means. 
Facial  expressions  brought  no  reactions;  for  ever 
were  his  eyes  on  his  feet.  She  wished  him  off  among 
the  down-and-outs,  the  wall-flowers,  but  mercifully 
the  whistle  blew.  Mrs.  Chambers  drew  a  better  partner 
and  a  breath,  Mr.  Filcher  passed  counting  away.  Bar- 
bara laughed. 

For  Gates  the  party  was  not.    He  danced  with  Mrs. 


WASTE  lOT 

Gates  with  well-dissembled  fortitude,  and  Mrs.  Turner, 
gracious  hostess,  with  convincing  courtesy,  then  quietly 
but  firmly  absconded  to  dim  and  smoky  corners  far 
away.  There,  where  the  fumes  were  thickest,  in  an 
atmosphere  of  poker,  stale  smoke  and  cigar-stubs,  he 
found  old  Hermann  Vogel.  Vogel  had  also  come,  with 
Mrs.  Vogel  and  Karl.  Himself,  he  had  not  gone  in. 
Mrs.  Gates  and  Mrs.  Vogel  were  not  intensely  inti- 
mate, and  Barbara  did  not  care  much  for  Karl,  so  that 
the  partners  and  their  wives  had  not  met  earlier  that 
evening. 

Gates  took  a  seat  and  a  cigar,  lighted  the  cigar,  and 
asked, 

"What  news  from  Maugan  Grubbs?" 

Mr.  Vogel,  who  spoke  with  the  characteristic  slow- 
ness which  did  not  apply  to  his  thoughts,  looked  first 
about  the  smoking  room  and  then  at  Mr.  Gates.  The 
game  went  on,  and  men  were  sunk  in  arm-chairs  in 
the  somnolent  enjoyment  of  a  smashing  dinner,  good 
perfectos,  and  light  reading. 

Then  he  cautiously  answered, 

"Maughan  says  we're  likely  to  be  bothered  with  the 
factory  votes  this  year;  he  says  they've  got  some 
notion  they  aren't  getting  all  they  ought. 

"A  man  from  the  Fork  came  yesterday  and  talked  by 
the  Stevens  plant  at  noon,  and  —  " 

"Damn  the  Fork!  I  see  what's  going  on  up  there. 
Vogel,  I've  got  a  lot  of  thick-skulled  chaps  who  can't 
tell  when  they're  decently  well  off. 

"I'm  afraid  some  day  they're  going  to  make  me 
trouble.  I  understand  what  they're  after.  I  was  up 
there  only  last  month,  just  for  the  day,  and  they're 
getting  just  as  good  treatment  as  they  ever  did  from  me. 
They  want  a  raise!" 

"Well,  you  might  give  it  if  you  have  to." 


108  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

"I  will,  if  I  have  to.  They  had  one,  a  cent  an 
hour,  two  years  ago.  Now  they  want  another;  shorter 
days,  too,  damn  'em. 

"By  the  way,  I  saw  old  Crimmins,  loading  in  the 
yard.  The  old  fellow  looked  seedy,  pretty  much  all 
in.  Wouldn't  know  him.  Seemed  to  be  drinking, 
acted  kind  of  hard  toward  me.  If  I  dared,  I'd  fire 
the  man." 

''So.     Why  not?" 

"I  would  in  a  minute.  Maybe  he'd  be  more  trouble 
than  he  is  there,  but  .  .  ." 

"Mr.  Gates,  Mr.  Gates!" 

"Here,  boy.    What's  the  matter?" 

"Mrs.  Gates,  she  wants  you  outside." 

"I  suppose  that  settles  it,  Vogel.  Tell  Grubbs  to 
get  busy  and  stay  at  it.  What  do  we  keep  him  for? 
Good-night." 

When  Mr.  Gates  was  notified,  the  party  was  sure  to 
be  over.  Mrs.  Gates  was  a  good  wife,  and  she  quaffed 
her  society  to  the  decent  limit. 

XVI 

A  SMALL  fire-cracker  popped  out  smartly,  and  a  large 
red  "giant"  spoke  sedately  with  a  loud,  bass  bang! 
from  down  the  street  in  front  of  Barbara's. 

With  the  first  she  stirred  a  little,  restlessly,  with 
the  second  she  awoke  to  drowsy  consciousness  that 
it  was  morning,  and  this  the  Fourth  in  Maple- 
ton!  It  was  morning  indeed,  and  young.  But  while 
Father  Gates  emitted  a  sincere  and  favorite  damn, 
and  Mrs.  Gates  said,  "Holden!  don't,"  Barbara  stepped 
lightly  out  on  the  floor  in  her  bare  feet  and  walked  to 
the  window.  She  shielded  herself  behind  the  lacy  cur- 
tain, and  looked  out;  while  the  youthful  fiend  who  had 


WASTE  109 

caused  it  all  ran  off  with  a  holiday  glee  to  fresh  homes 
and  sleepers  new.  And  as  he  ran,  he  cried  with  all 
the  Independence  in  his  little  active  body, 

"Yeh!    Oh,  yeh!     Fourt' o' July." 

Hyperion  had  opened  up  the  windows  of  his  house, 
and  from  great  heights  sent  out  his  children  of  the  dawn 
to  bid  the  earth  awake.  It  responded  —  in  every  bird 
and  tree  and  blade  of  grass,  and  in  the  dew-moist 
housetops  and  climbing,  spear-topped  steeples  that 
caught  his  rays  and  mirrored  them,  and  sent  them  back 
a  thousand-fold. 

It  all  looked  new  and  fresh  and  very  fair  to  Barbara, 
as  if  old  Father  Time  had  slipped  away  another  day 
from  off  his  reel  of  years,  and  bade  it  start  anew.  Be- 
fore the  Gates'  the  maples  towered  up  in  their  greenness 
and  precision.  A  robin  returned  to  the  nest  she  had 
left  when  the  boy  saluted  the  dawn. 

"Barbara!  Barbara!  Come  back  to  bed.  It's  four 
o'clock!"  was  Hattie's  patient  contribution  to  the 
morning.  But  the  little  girl  first  saw  the  robin  safely 
home. 

She  was  obedient,  more  by  far  that  the  little,  miser- 
able God  of  Sleep  that  first  had  started,  then  sped  away 
as  if  not  likely  to  return  to  her.  The  child  begged 
to  be  up  and  dressed,  for  if  there  is  a  single  day  in  all 
the  year  that  brings  to  every  little  girl  the  wish  to  be 
a  boy,  it  is  the  Fourth.  Hattie,  however,  carried  the 
question  by  reminding  her  that  should  they  get  up  now 
they  would  of  course  be  far  too  tired  to  listen  to  the 
speaking  at  the  Court  House,  or  to  see  the  pin-wheels 
and  the  rockets  and  the  candles  shoot  off  their  sparks 
at  night. 

So  Barbara  remained  in  bed,  rather  passively,  to 
hear  the  Court  House  clock  across  the  way  strike  one, 
two,  three,  four  —  five.    The  light  nosed  in  a  little 


110  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

stronger  'round  the  corner  of  the  shades,  but  she  was 
quiet,  and  by-and-by  she  slept.  When  they  awoke 
again  to  general  cannonading,  it  was  properly  the 
Fourth. 

Breakfast  at  the  Gates'  was  early  for  a  holiday,  as 
Mr.  Gates  himself  had  been  elected  speaker  of  the 
day.  Prominent  men  were  chosen,  usually  ministers, 
but  Mr.  Gates  was  it  this  year.  With  business-man 
ability  he  had  already  cogitated  just  what  best  to  say. 

Partaking  a  shade  less  heartily  than  usual,  Mr.  Gates 
fared  forth  for  the  place  of  Gates  &  Vogel.  He  found 
Hermann  there,  with  imported  ideas.  Mr.  Vogel  hailed 
from  abroad,  in  the  present  generation.  But  he  was 
clever,  business-like,  educated,  an  excellent  mixer  and 
"jiner."  There  was  also  a  stenographer,  whom  Gates 
had  'phoned  from  home.  He  had  caught  her  in  time, 
which  was  lucky,  she  being  already  decided  upon  a 
day  at  Paris  on  the  Moosehead.  Paris  was  down- 
river. It  boasted  a  thousand  people,  and  as  much 
gayety  as  they  could  support. 

It  is  unessential  to  follow  to  the  flaccid  ends  of  ora- 
tory the  efforts  of  the  partners  and  the  patience  of 
amanuensis.  Mr.  Gates  dictated;  it  was  copied;  it  was 
dictated  again.  Having  with  heat  torn  a  first  draft 
to  little  bits,  he  began  with  new  fire,  again  filled  a 
basket,  and  with  a  fresh  cigar  between  his  teeth  re- 
turned to  the  attack.  The  stenographer  continued,  re- 
marking mentally  that  it  was  all  the  same,  dear  me! 
When  finished,  she  handed  it  to  Gates.  He  read  it,  then 
Mr.  Vogel,  who  checked  with  pencil,  infused  it  with 
hearty  breath  of  alien  effort  and  catholic  patriotism, 
and  called  it  good.  Whereupon  the  typewriter  plunged 
for  her  hat,  stopped  patting  her  front  hair,  felt  that  the 
sights  of  Paris  were  yet  young,  and  departed. 

Delete  the  remainder  of  the  day,  until  the  hour  of 


WASTE  111 

three,  to  find  in  body  assembled  upon  the  Court  House 
green  such  crowds  of  actual  and  near-by  Mapletonians 
as  only  fairs  or  a  revival  could  usually  produce.  The 
Crier  with  the  dreamy  eyes  of  Mr.  Filcher,  might  well 
have  looked  and  termed  it  "representative."  A  man 
would  have  said  "packed,"  a  woman  "suffocating," 
Both  would  have  been  right,  or  all  three.  It  was  the 
Fourth.  The  jam  extended  from  the  porches,  across 
the  street  by  Gates',  on  through  the  street  itself,  un- 
jeopardized  by  traffic.  It  flowed  across  the  green  of 
the  park,  upon  the  benches,  among  the  trees  and  some- 
times in  them,  to  the  Bandstand  hard-by  the  Court; 
it  ringed  the  stand,  with  its  semi-circle  of  band  along 
the  rear,  to  the  clergymen  and  leading  citizens  up 
front.  On  Decoration  Day  "disabled  veterans  and 
ministers  were  driven  to  the  graves  in  carriages"; 
today  each  had  his  proper  place  before  the  Court 
House     Among  them  the  school  principal  also  loomed. 

But  hark!  what  is  that?  That  is  the  band,  the 
Mapleton  Silver  Cornet  MiHtary  Band.  It  is  playing 
one  of  John  Philip  Sousa's.    Did  you  know  it? 

The  Rev.  Sykes,  with  dedicated  mien,  stepped  for- 
ward with  conclusion  of  the  air.  He  looked  determined, 
and  he  held  on.  The  packed,  perspiring  people  gave 
way  to  some  minutes  of  introspection.  He  prayed,  in 
part,  God's  blessing  upon  those  who  had  gone,  those 
who  were  going,  those  who  had  come  this  day,  those 
who  had  not  come;  this  country,  other  countries,  the 
President,  all  Congressmen;  and  the  speaker  of  the 
day.  Sweating  farmers  wiped  wet  faces  on  their  hands, 
and  wondered  if  this  last  were  he.  Which  done,  the 
shepherd  rested.    The  people  breathed. 

Principal  Cadwalader  Kelly  then  followed  with 
something  from  Lincoln.  Whatever  it  was,  the  people 
attended.    They  listened  to  the  teacher  and  clapped  the 


112  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

Emancipator.  When  they  were  done,  Mr.  Bodeheaver, 
set  close  to  Mr.  Turner,  boldly  whispered, 

"By  gracious!  Ain't  that  fine?  Why,  but  that 
Lincoln  must  a  been  bright  an'  educated.  What  frat 
was  he  at  college,  Mr.  Turner?" 

Mr.  Turner  was  short,  sarcastic  and  sixty.  He  was 
a  college  man,  and  had  some  sense.  The  band  tem- 
pered Turner's  reply. 

Old  Colonel  Hunter  rose  portentously.  Colonel 
Hunter  was  Mapleton's  traditional  leader-in-public. 
He  nominated  candidates,  proposed  toasts,  led  parades, 
and  introduced  speakers.  He  lent  respectability. 
Colonel  Hunter  said; 

"Ladies,  Gentlemen,  Associates  upon  the  stand,  good 
people  of  Mapleton,  when  it  again  devolved  upon  us  to 
select  a  speaker  for  this  year,  one  man  —  almost  im- 
mediately I  may  say  —  occurred  to  your  Patriotic 
Committee  and  myself. 

"Independence  Day  breathes  of  success.  It  has 
ever ;  may  it  always.  We  interpret  it  in  various  ways, 
quietly  or  noisily,  with  the  sound  of  music,  or  in  the 
fireworks  and  explosives  dear  to  boys.  But  it  is  all 
success:  success  of  the  Colonies,  success  of  this  country, 
success  of  ourselves. 

"To  me  and  to  the  rest  it  seemed  that  on  this  day 
we  should  select  as  our  interpreter,  our  speaker,  a  man 
whose  ancestry  wholeheartedly  contributed  to  this,  the 
great  American  success;  whose  name  today  betokens 
still,  in  every  way,  all  of  its  earlier  measure. 

"Ladies,  Gentlemen,  with  pleasure  I  introduce  to  you 
the  Honorable  Holden  Gates,  of  Mapleton,  Hamlin 
County.     Mr.  Gates." 

At  this  Mr.  Gates,  or  the  Colonel,  drew  plaudits. 
Mr.  Gates  modestly  raised  his  hand.  The  applause 
would  probably  have  died  then  anyhow,  but  this  grace- 


WASTE  113 

fulness  capped  it  well.  Porch  rockers  ceased  from 
creaking,  good  people  shifted  to  the  other  foot,  the  voice 
of  Gates  was  heard  across  the  green. 

"Ladies  and  Gentlemen,  dear  fellow-citizens  of 
Mapleton,  I  feel  as  I  look  down  upon  your  eager,  happy 
faces,  proud  in  thinking  of  this  day  as  I  am  proud  to 
speak  to  you,  that  there  is  hardly  need  of  this,  of  some- 
one who  shall  'interpret'  Independence  for  you,  as 
Colonel  Himter"  —  bowing  toward  him  —  "has  so 
aptly  put  it." 

Upon  which  Mr.  Gates  had  straightway  set  about 
his  duty  of  interpretation.  He  did  so  earnestly  and 
long.  His  was  no  fear  of  a  crowd.  He  held  them  in 
contempt,  proper  conception  for  vigorous  speaking. 
The  people  liked  it  well,  and  Mr.  Vogel  very  much. 

But  when  at  the  end  Mr.  Gates  cried  out,  with  the 
proud  Framers  of  the  Nation, 

"  'We,  the  people  of  the  United  States,  in  order  to 
form  a  more  perfect  Union,  establish  Justice,  insure 
domestic  tranquillity,  provide  for  the  common  defense, 
promote  the  general  welfare,  and  secure  the  Blessings 
of  Liberty  to  ourselves  and  our  posterity,  do  ordain  and 
establish  this  CONSTITUTION  for  the  United  States 
of  America  —  '  " 

There  was  genuine  cheering.    And  as  he  added, 

" —  these,  then:  perfect  Union,  balanced  justice, 
domestic  tranquillity,  common  defense,  welfare,  liberty 
—  but  most  of  all  justice,  tranquillity,  and  welfare  — 
are  the  great  confession  of  your  Faith,  the  Creed  of  all 
our  lives  —  "  there  was  no  end  to  their  emotion. 

When  he  and  Vogel  made  a  way  downtown  through 
crowds  and  warm  congratulations,  they  found  at 
their  office  a  messenger  from  Slab  Fork.  He  brought 
a  note  from  the  Eureka  Brotherhood  which  read  — 


114  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

"Unless  you  raise  our  wages  and  give  us  homes  that 
we  can  live  in  and  a  little  more  to  live  on,  we  shall 
take  a  hand  ourselves." 

Much  righteous  surprise  and  honest  indignation 
burst  from  Mr.  Gates. 

"You  can  go  back  and  tell  your  Brotherhood  that 
Gates  says,  'Go  to  blazes!' 

"You've  got  your  steady  work  from  me  for  years. 
What  about  me?  You  go  back,  and  tell  them  to  go 
slow!" 

Little  Barbara,  strolling  in,  regarded  with  naive  sur- 
prise the  poorly  dressed  old  man  who  stumbled  out 
to  lose  himself  among  the  celebrants. 


XVII 

Mapleton  had  its  Union  Station.  Trains  of  the 
M.  Y.  &  N.  used  it,  as  well  as  the  incoming,  or  out- 
going ones  of  the  Slab  Fork  narrow-gauge,  which  last 
backed  their  loaded  cars  close  up  behind  the  Station 
and  hauled  the  empties  out  again  when  cargoes  had 
been  handled  and  put  aboard  the  standard  lines. 

A  Boston  sleeper  went  through  Mapleton  at  nine 
P.M.,  which,  roughly  speaking,  was  the  hour  when  the 
train  from  the  Fork  returned  from  its  Northward  trip. 
"Roughly  speaking"  was  purposely  employed  in  speak- 
ing of  its  schedule,  for  this  it  had  not,  except  by  how 
the  saws  were  cutting  at  the  mill  or  by  the  loads  to  be 
shifted  and  hauled  down  to  town.  The  train  left  at 
six  of  a  morning.  When  it  came  back  it  was  evening. 
It  handled  a  vast  deal  of  traffic,  and  always  brought 
home  the  money. 

This  evening,  in  September,  there  was  undue  interest 
in  the  passing  of  the  nine  o'clock.    The  cause,  immedi- 


WASTE  116 

ate,  was  that  a  stateroom  had  been  held  for  Boston. 
Red  would  show  from  the  board  and  the  limited 
probably  halt,  instead  of  dropping  its  mail  as  it 
whistled  without  even  a  courteous  pause,  which  it 
usually  did. 

The  railway  yard  of  Mapleton,  at  night,  looked 
relatively  big  and  busy,  for  there  were  many  switches, 
each  indexed  by  its  small,  squat  light;  a  string  of  cars 
one  side  the  rather  long  freight  warehouse;  a  line  of 
logging  empties  or  tightly  loaded  flats  upon  the  other. 
Far  up  the  track,  if  the  night  were  fair,  you  saw  the 
narrow  profile  of  the  Black  Creek  bridge.  It  was  all 
very  murky  and  fine,  and  apt  to  be  smelly  of  cinders. 

Just  as  the  telegrapher-ticket-agent-baggage-and-sta- 
tion-master  hand-pulled  an  iron  brake,  so  that  his 
semaphore  showed  "Stop,"  a  machine  with  blushing 
headlights  threw  the  dingy  red-walled  building  into 
very  bright  relief.  When  the  door  of  the  car  was 
opened  a  little  girl  and  a  lady  alighted.  The  lady 
said, 

"Barbara,  where  in  the  world  can  your  father  be?" 

The  little  girl  said, 

"I  don't  know,  Mamma,  but  he  said  he'd  come,  so 
I  know  he  will." 

While  they  were  talking  Jerry  came  forward  with 
a  number  of  bags  and  cases;  the  trunks  were  there 
already, 

"Shall  I  go  in  and  get  the  tickets,  Mrs.  Gates,  and 
check  the  luggage?" 

"Yes,  Jerry,  and  then  return  and  see  if  you  can't 
find  Mr.  Gates.    He  may  be  at  the  office." 

Barbara  was  quiet  during  this,  for  she  had  only  just 
come  home  from  Maine.  Now  she  was  leaving  again. 
It  was  a  highly  recommended  school,  the  finishing 
kind,  near  Boston.    The  Gates  had  been  told  it  was 


116  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

expensive  and  good;  Mrs.  Gates  had  heard  from  Mrs. 
Hunter  that  it  was  fashionable.  Her  mother  would 
accompany  her  for  one  day  at  the  school  and  a  week 
at  the  shops. 

Jerry  reappeared,  gave  Mrs.  Gates  the  checks  and 
tickets,  returned  her  change,  and  picked  a  man-made 
servant's  way  back  to  the  car.  The  agent  too  came 
out  to  ask  about  the  trunks,  which  seemed  to  be  excess, 
received  the  balance  due,  gave  thanks  and  ambled  off, 
reporting  "her"  on  time. 

A  minute  or  two  before  the  hour  a  whistle 
sounded  somewhere  in  the  blackness.  Mrs.  Gates 
fidgeted,  said,  "Oh,  where  is  your  Father!"  but  this 
was  not  their  train.  Five  minutes  later  a  tail-lighted 
caboose  showed  up  behind  the  Station,  the  lanterns 
dim  at  first,  then  burning  brighter  £is  the  logging  train 
puffed  loudly  and  backed  in. 

Another  blast  shrilled  out,  an  automobile's  siren 
sounded  too.  The  train  for  Boston  made  the  bend, 
passed  noisily  across  the  iron  bridge  and  lost  its 
speed.  Mr.  Gates  ran  up,  gave  Mrs.  Gates  a  reassuring 
bill-roll  and  a  careless  tap,  received  from  Barbara  a  lov- 
ing little  hug,  and  bestowed  a  kiss.  He  walked  along 
the  wooden  platform  with  them.  The  coal-faced,  white- 
garbed  porter  met  them  with  all  respect,  took  from 
the  following  Jerry  his  load  of  bags,  saw  everyone  and 
everything  on  board,  and  the  train  was  gone. 

Jerry  cranked  up  and  Mr.  Gates  entered  his  car. 
The  string  of  Pullmans  roared  from  sight  around  a 
curve,  as  a  bent,  poorly-clad  man,  with  a  stout  young 
boy  as  neatly  and  as  badly  garbed,  stepped  from  the 
smoky  caboose.  They  walked  in  the  direction  of  the 
town,  uncertainly.  The  boy  carried  their  canvas 
telescope;  the  man  walked  as  though  tired.  The 
Gates  car  passed  them  as  they  reached  the  street,  in 
time  to  take  its  dust. 


REFINEMENT 

XVIII 

IT  pointed  east,  past  a  round  dozen  of  empty  lots, 
over  a  grumbling  bridge  thick-plastered  with 
stories  of  stock  shows  and  patented  nostrums, 
on  by  a  signboard  or  three  as  well  as  the  shop  of  a 
blacksmith,  till  finally  it  reached  to  the  heart  of  the 
town,  this  road  that  led  from  the  station  and  into  the 
village  of  Mapleton.  As  if  its  mission  ended  and  there 
was  no  further  use,  its  dry,  uneven  surface  left  you 
there,  right  at  the  door  of  Dave's. 

Dave's,  acknowledged  solar  plexus  of  local  hospi- 
tality, dull  conviviality  and  easy  sociability  to  boot,  was 
also  the  beginning  of  "downtown."  The  road  from  the 
railroad  ended,  and  there  at  its  end  stores  and  mar- 
kets began.  All  things  were  Dave's.  His  letterheads, 
as  well  as  cryptically  declaiming  livery,  bath,  a  room 
for  pool,  drummers'  headquarters,  steam  heat  and  bar, 
said  also,  "in  the  business  part  of  the  town."  The 
house  of  David  was  the  core.  It  smacked  of  roller 
towels,  and  smelled  of  cabbage.  Its  painted  sign  be- 
spoke your  trade;  its  weight,  upheld  by  magic,  made 
threats  against  your  head. 

Its  rambling  stoop  and  foot-scored  rail  delineated 
Mekka.  On  mellow  evenings,  such  as  this,  hard  chairs 
cracked  lazily  with  dull  itinerants  who  had  teetered 
on  Brod  Watts'  boxes  until  that  worthy  snuffed  the 
coal-oil  lamps  and  closed  his  general  store  with  many 
a  backward  glance  of  circumspection  to  be  sure:  (i) 
that  every  light  was  out;    (2)  the  last  slug  ousted; 

117 


118  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

(3)  the  bolts  shoved  tight  on  small-paned  windows 
and  loose-hung,  swaybacked  doors.  That  attained,  the 
living,  moving  part  of  the  store  hitched  itself  over  to 
Dave's,  where  they  welcomed  the  hour  of  ten  with 
many  a  hard-sucked  pipe  and  a  quorum  of  well-worked 
quid.  Nothing  changed,  nor  cheered  the  votaries  save 
the  arrival  of  the  "nine,"  and  that  itself  but  seldom 
thrilled  the  transient  trade  enough  to  quit  good  chairs 
and  meet  it.  They  did  not  even  need  to;  Dave's  bus 
drove  back  and  brought  it  to  them. 

To-night  the  train  had  whistled  with  usual  vigor, 
sighted  the  town,  and  left  it  again  to  whir  on  South. 
In  proper  time  the  well-used  'bus  bumped  over  the 
bridge,  plumbed  the  rut  in  front  of  the  blacksmith's 
sufficiently  to  test  vehicular  and  human  ribs,  and 
halted  in  front  of  the  place  with  its  burningly  eager 
stoop-full.  Appeared  Dave,  who  ran  to  a  place  by  the 
steps,  cried  "Back  'er  back!"  to  the  driver,  and  opened 
the  door  himself  as  the  latter  answered  his  bidding. 
Eleven  holeproof  rockers  quit  work  and  ceased  from 
creaking;  six  jaws  abandoned  pipes;  five  stopped  their 
champing  for  a  minute-portion;  while  chairs  and  jaws 
resumed  their  normal  function  and  disappointed  life 
pressed  on  as  one  bored,  well-satcheled  travelling 
man  reluctantly  surrendered  all  to  Dave.  He  had 
"made"  their  town  before. 

The  nine  and  its  attendant  'bus  had  gone.  The 
last  nocturnal  excitement  was  paling  to  a  talk  on 
favorite  sons  and  tax  assessors  when  two  black  figures 
showed  beneath  the  corner  light,  one  long  and  rather 
warped,  the  other  shortly  upright,  both  coming  on 
toward  Dave's.  They  failed  of  being  natives,  for  they 
entered  the  hotel.  One  or  two  went  in  behind  to  see 
more  what  they  looked  like.  They  sauntered  back  to 
say  that  those  inside  "seemed  like  tiiey  wan't  much." 


REFINEMENT  119 

The  travelling  man  had  dropped  his  bags,  picked 
up  a  case,  and  gone  to  make  a  late  call  on  "the  trade." 
Dave  sat  alone,  attempting  to  decide  whether  to  put 
his  man  in  23,  "with  wardrobe,"  or  in  19,  "double- 
window."  But  the  pent-up  figure  by  the  desk  quit 
work  as  the  rough-tapped  boots  of  the  pair  walked 
on  his  floor  and  fell  afoul  his  cogitations.  "Sun-burnt 
faces,  big  red  hands,  seedy  clothes,  cheap  telescope: 
the  Fork"  —  the  hotel  man,  that  fortune-teller,  checked 
them  off.  He  did  not  trouble  to  get  up,  for  Dave  was  a 
veteran  landlord.  Not  so  much  to  look  at,  for  he 
was  bright  of  hair  and  whisker  as  of  nose,  and  his  chin 
had  been  a  disappointment,  there  were  some  main- 
tained that  Dave  was  over-rated.  But  Ezra  Bodeheaver 
asseverated  stoutly  that  "Dave  Wilkinson  could  do 
more  on  less  sense  than  any  man  in  Mapleton."  Ezra 
was  modest. 

When  the  elder  of  the  two  had  reached  the  desk, 
he  asked  whether  or  not  there  was  room  for  the  night. 
He  was  a  stranger,  this  last.  You  recollect  Firemen's 
Convention,  ten  year  back?  Dave's  hotel  had  never 
been  full  but  once;  that  was  it. 

"Yep.  One  dollar.  Advance,"  came  as  the  prompt 
return,  and  Dave  produced  the  book. 

Dave's  had  a  register.  Few  names  of  antecedent 
governors  or  living  Congressmen  appeared  athwart  its 
year-browned  sheets.  He  kept  it  for  poor  strangers. 
"Book-keeping  was  too  gosh-fired  much  of  a  nuisance," 
he  "didn't  bother  none."  The  stranger  scratched  upon 
a  blotty  surface,  "Andrew  Johnson,  Slab  Fork,"  then 
added,  "and  son."  From  a  pocket  frayed  at  the  edges 
he  fumbled  a  bill  that  had  also  seen  service,  and  gave 
it  to  the  man  behind  the  desk.  Johnson  did  not  take  it 
from  a  roll  nor  from  a  pocket-book.  It  was  a  lonesome 
dollar,  for  Johnson  reached  it  out  as  though  he  hated 


120  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

to  disturb  the  faintly- jingling  coins  and  the  few  re- 
maining there.  He  had  worked  six  hours  for  the 
departed.  Formality  met,  the  host  conducted  them 
along  and  up  a  pair  of  crooked  and  reproachful  stairs. 
At  the  end  of  a  third-floor  hall  they  stopped.  No  need 
to  turn  a  key.  The  host  held  his  fluttering  lamp  in 
one  hand  while  he  turned  the  knob  with  the  other,  and 
the  three  stepped  into  the  room. 

It  was  comfortably  furnished  with  gloom.  The 
corners  and  the  sides  were  camouflaged  in  dusk.  Dave's 
rooms  were  bearable  in  spring  and  fall;  he  "aimed  to 
give  a  dollar's  worth."  In  the  fluttery  Ught  of  the  lamp 
one  saw  two  chairs  that  managed  very  well  to  stand 
alone;  a  piece  of  furniture  improbably  a  dresser, 
though  with  a  pair  of  shallow  drawers  and  patient, 
spotted  mirror  at  its  back;  a  bed  that  showed  two 
brownish  quilts,  two  thin,  anemic  pillows,  and  a  hol- 
lowed center;  a  low,  dtdl-painted  stand  with  crowded 
standing-room  for  a  shallow  bowl  and  empty,  nicely 
cracked  pitcher.  Pine  lumber  carpeted  the  floor,  and 
an  odd,  exotic  blossom  papered  the  wall,  while  over 
the  ceiling  a  few  flies  stalked  uncertainly  in  the  light 
of  the  wick  below. 

Since  the  register  said  Slab  Fork,  the  cubicle  was 
large,  quite  cozy,  all  but  luxury.  Dave  set  his  lamp 
upon  the  dresser,  where  some  of  the  light  was  caught 
by  the  glass  and  faintly  cast  over  the  room. 

He  then  left  for  a  pitcher  of  water,  ran  downstairs 
and  up  again,  returned  it  to  the  washstand,  yelled 
"Goo'  night,"  and  was  gone. 

The  lad  had  dropped  the  telescope  he  carried,  and 
the  two  sat  down.  The  elder,  rather,  sank  down.  The 
boy's  face  was  tired  as  he  turned  to  his  father. 

"Hard  trip,  eh,  Son?"  said  the  man,  and  the  little 
fellow  nodded  wearily.    "You'll  like  it  though,  I  know, 


REFINEMENT  121 

when  youVe  sort  of  got  the  hang,"  he  went  along, 
to  keep  up  his  spirits  as  well.  "Why,  if  I  could  'a  gone 
to  school,  real  like,  'way  back  when  I  was  small,  there 
isn't  anything  I  wouldn't  gladly  done  to  make  it  go. 
But  did  I  get  it?  Not  much.  Son,  they  took  me  out  of 
school  almost  afore  I  quit  short  pants.  Sometimes 
I've  sort  of  thought  if  I'd  gone  back  a  lot  o'  things 
would  worked  out  different. 

"But  here  I  am,  Andy,  as  far  as  I'll  go.  I'm  old, 
and  I'm  tired.    I  never  turned  the  trick." 

They  were  undressing  now.  They  didn't  wash,  for 
the  pitcher  was  small  and  they  would  need  the  water 
when  they  woke.  Besides,  they  came  from  the  Fork; 
people  did  their  splashing  in  the  morning.  Johnson 
turned  off  the  light.  Then  he  talked  again.  Andy  was 
very  quiet;  each  felt  a  little  awkward  of  the  other. 
The  boy  was  full  of  thoughts  that  come  the  first  time 
he  quits  his  home;  the  father,  disappointed,  old,  try- 
ing to  launch  a  life  where  his  had  swamped,  was  looking 
forward. 

His  vision  was  very  clear.  He  reached  an  arm  to 
where  the  lad  lay  in  the  hollow  of  the  limp,  worn  bed. 

"What  is  it?"  said  the  boy,  a  little  tremor  in  his 
voice.  He  knew  no  father  but  a  man  of  unresponsive- 
ness.   This  one  was  different.    Somehow,  it  was  hard. 

"Andy,  son,  I  want  to  talk  a  bit  before  you  go  to 
sleep.  It  won't  hurt  you,  and  '11  do  me  good.  You're 
young,  but  thinkin'  back  I  see  a  whole  lot  plain  that  a 
man  who's  worked  his  time  can  maybe  put  to  a  lad 
in  a  few  plain  words,  and  save  him  a  year  or  so,  some  o' 
the  heartaches  too. 

"I  know  that  I  ain't  smart  or  good  enough  to  talk, 
but  I  c'n  only  live  again  —  in  you.  You've  got  to  go 
on  where  I  quit,  and  I  don't  want  you  ever  lookin' 
back,  as  I  am  now,  and  say  'My  daddy  never  bothered 


122  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

me  with  an5rthin'  like  that  when  I  grew  up,  and  left 
my  home.'  My  father  was  all  right,  but  he  didn't  take 
no  stock  in  education,  home  or  other  kind.  I  mostly 
learned  by  accident,  and  I  remember.  I  learned  late, 
too  late  to  do  much  good. 

"If  I  could  say  a  word  to  boys,  afore  they  start, 
I'd  say  'Boy,  fight  shy  of  a  drink.  Tastes  bad  enough 
at  first,  but  there's  a  far  worser  taste  that  you  won't 
get  till  afterwards.'  The  popular  boy  in  the  bar- 
room ain't  near  so  high-up  in  the  mill.  And  he'll  be 
less  so,  every  year!  You  can't  afford  it,  Andy.  It 
don't  go  to  prove  you're  a  good  one,  taking  a  drink. 
It  sets  you  up  as  yoimg,  more  like  a  fool.  Brace  up 
to  a  man!  I've  played  with  it  sometimes.  If  you 
hanker  to  work  with  yoiu-  hands,  to  sweat  for  your 
life,  to  slave  for  your  bread  —  why,  take  it!  If  you 
want  your  brain  to  wrastle,  I  say,  'Hold  up!'  Hand- 
workers can't  afford  it,  and  others  don't  want  to. 

"There's  a  couple  o'  things  I'm  leavin'  with  you. 
That's  one;  and  t'other 's  harder.  Here  it  is.  Be  care- 
ful with  the  women.  They'll  help  you,  mighty  much, 
to  make  your  gait  and  fix  the  place  you'll  get  to.  If 
they're  no  good,  you  can't  afford  'em.  You've  seen, 
at  the  Fork.  You're  young,  but  remember  —  gay 
clothes,  and  smilin'  faces;  happy  with  happiness  they 
don't  no  longer  feel;  and  —  nothing  left  to  lose. 

"Remember  your  mother,  boy.  /  ain't  very  much, 
but  I  always  like  to  think  of  every  woman  like  I  do  of 
her.  Treat  'em  so.  If  they  ain't  good,  leave  'em, 
for  you'll  lose.  But  if  they  are,  don't  ever  dare  to 
make  them  less  so.    Someone'll  have  to  pay. 

"Maybe  it  seems  it  ain't  so  wrong  to  reach  for 
what  is  offered.  It  is,  for  you're  the  man.  When 
some  day,  most  like  you  will,  you  find  a  woman  you 
want,  look  at  yourself.    Be  sure  you've  got  as  much 


REFINEMENT  123 

to  give  as  her.  Women  forgive  a  sight,  but  get  a  good, 
clean  start.    You  can't  forgive  yourself. 

"Such  things  I've  wanted,  though  maybe  missed  .  .  . 
the  country  too!  It  was  not  always  mine.  But  now 
it  is!  Whole  lots  o'  things  are  new  and  queer  to  me, 
most  like  to  you.  But  never  to  forget  the  country  and 
the  home.    They  will  be  watching." 

The  old  man  never  talked  just  so  before.  The  words 
gained  strength  from  his  heart,  significant  eloquence 
from  blundered  life.  But  at  the  end  they  failed  him, 
and  his  voice  broke.  Andy  said  little,  and  they  were 
quiet.    Probably  they  were  asleep. 


XIX 

Smoke  trails  hung  over  the  track,  and  in  the  rocky 
old  caboose  that  trailed  the  train  of  logging  empties 
Andy  watched  his  father,  going  home.  So  faded  the 
Fork.  He  felt  again  that  father's  very  first  embrace. 
It  was  all  of  him. 

The  boy  did  not  seem  hungry,  nor  even  very  tired 
after  Dave's.  He  did  not  feel  so  very  much  of  any- 
thing. The  baggy  telescope  lay  at  his  feet.  It  had  not 
been  opened  since  they  left  the  Fork,  as  neither  needed 
anything  to  spend  a  night.  Their  day  began  at  Dave's 
at  five  that  morning.  The  logging  train  might  make 
the  Fork  in  time  for  work.    His  father  took  it. 

He  raised  the  bag,  and  started  back  toward  town. 
A  jolting  milk-wagon  spilled  a  little  of  its  foamy  load 
his  way,  and  a  passing  buggy  coated  him  with  dust. 
The  telescope  was  heavy;  they  all  pzissed  by.  A 
clattering  again  loomed  up  behind.  Once  more  he 
shrank  to  the  side  of  the  road,  but  the  horse's  feet  and 


124  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

the  wheels  slowed  down  till  a  voice  rang  out,  crisp 
and  fresh  as  the  day. 

"Hi,  son,  where  be  you  goin'!" 

The  boy  looked  up.  His  head  just  overtopped  the 
nearest  wheel,  and  over  it  he  saw  a  shaggy  head  and 
bearded,  red-cheeked  face  set  on  some  splendid 
shoulders.    He  was  big  and  looked  safe. 

"Goin'  far,  son?" 

"No,  just  school." 

"Well,  hop  in,  an'  ride  along,"  countered  the  man, 
moving  a  part  of  his  bulk  a  bit  toward  the  side  of  the 
seat,  "and  reach  me  up  that  telescope.  I  ain't  goin' 
far  m)^elf,  but  I  might's  well  as  not  give  ye  a  little 
lift.    In  fact,  I'd  ruther. 

"You  look  a  fairish  sort,  I'd  say,"  giving  a  sort  of 
smile,  "ever  been  here  before?" 

"Nope,  never  been  here  before." 

"Well,  seems  like  you  ain't  much  stuck  on  it, 
neither,"  he  went  along,  as  the  buggy  rattled  over  the 
bridge  to  stop  by  a  little  shop.  "Never  mind,  though, 
son,  you'll  like  it,  I  jest  know  you  will.  Look  Uke  you 
was  that  sort. 

"Sorry  I  can't  go  no  farther,  but  this's  my  shop  and 
I'm  late  a'ready.  Blacksmithin'  don't  wait  for  no  one, 
least  of  all  the  smithy.  Now  up  towards  Dave's,  a 
little  to  the  left,  then  on  along  State  and  to  the  right 
you  go.  Can't  miss  it.  The  school?  she's  by  the  Court 
House,  back  amongst  the  trees.  So  long,  and  come 
see  'Hub'  Sanders  so  be  you  ever  git  lonesome  with 
yer  books." 

"Good-by,"  gravely  replied  the  lad,  taking  the  tel- 
escope, "and  —  and  —  thank  you.  Hub!"  The  big 
man  grinned,  waved  him  a  huge,  dark  hand,  and  opened 
up  his  shop. 

Morning  brightened  Andy's  spirits.     It  was  early 


REFINEMENT  126 

day.  Occasional  curls  of  smoke  wound  out  the 
chimneys  he  could  see  from  Main  Street.  Here  and 
there  a  frowsy  grocer  boy  undid  his  doors  and  windows, 
and  hauled  out  sprawling  board-made  benches  on  which 
he  shortly  piled  the  best  of  Hamlin  County  produce. 
Some  factory  hands  were  getting  on  to  work,  and  a 
country  girl  in  a  blue-checked  dress  snapped  her  whip 
out  loud  as  an  old  horse  plodded  by  with  a  load  of 
squash  and  turnips,  and  rattling,  shiny  cans.  Dawn 
was  come,  as  up  among  the  hills  black  stacks  were 
soiling  the  warming  sky,  and  men  in  dark,  coarse  shirts 
and  long-patched  overalls  were  handling  logs  and 
boards  and  boxes  the  while  they  sang,  or  talked,  or 
cursed  each  other,  cursed,  talked,  or  sang  the  hours 
and  months  and  years  away. 

But  while  his  mind  dragged  on  with  them,  his  feet 
had  got  him  from  Main  Street  to  State.  Small,  waking 
stores  gave  way  to  larger,  calmly  sleeping  houses.  The 
early  air  had  in  it  the  breath  of  frosty  nights  and 
pungent  days,  of  fields  in  harvest,  large,  brown  pump- 
kins, and  the  shocked-up  corn  in  rows.  The  houses 
passed  and  scrutinized  were  easily  the  largest  he  had 
seen  in  all  his  life,  and  he  was  brushing  sixteen  now. 
Some  had  three  stories,  with  a  little  one  on  top.  They 
must  be  rich.  He  would  like  a  house  with  a  garret;  if 
he  had  he  wouldn't  sleep  there,  either.  Garrets  weren't 
much. 

He  shortly  saw  a  great  old  building,  with  a  clock. 
But  on  the  other  side,  well  back  inside  a  grove,  there 
stood  a  second  edifice  of  brick.  Its  roof  was  packed  in 
moss.  Above  the  door  there  was  carving,  "The  Free 
Academy  of  Mapleton,"  and  the  letters,  in-grown  with 
lichens  and  colored  with  rain,  looked  almost  as  large 
as  the  building.  Maybe  they  stood  for  something.  A 
flag  walk  entered  the  yard.    He  followed  it  inside. 


126  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

Early-risen  heads  poked  out  of  many  windows,  and  a 
comradely  voice  exclaimed,  "Hey!  there!  Where'd  you 
get  that  hat?"  Puckered-up  lips  piped  a  country  tune. 
The  sport  increased  as  he  approached.  The  friendly 
door  was  far  away;  and  he  might  never  reach  it!  His 
sagging  bag  was  torture.  However,  in  less  than  a 
minute  he  had  mustered  a  doubtful  knock.  The  noise 
above  apprising  him,  if  not  the  knock,  the  door  was 
quickly  opened  by  one  of  pedagogic  leanings.  He  was 
round,  horn-spectacled,  a  man  of  near-feminine  nice- 
ness.  He  seemed  a  proper  person,  though  not  the  hairy 
sort. 

"Come  in,  child,  come  in.  I  think  you  are  the  little 
boy  we  expected  last  night,"  he  added  rather  kindly, 
opening  the  door  enough  to  let  in  Andy  and  the  bag. 

"Your  name  is  Andrew  Johnson,  isn't  it?"  he  asked 
when  they  were  both  inside. 

"Yes'm,"  said  Andy,  shifting  feet. 

"Well,  we  are  just  sitting  down  to  breakfast,"  said 
his  host,  whose  name  was  Mr.  James.  "Have  you 
eaten?" 

"No,  sir,  I  haven't,"  and  he  might  as  well  have  added, 
"not  since  I  left  the  Fork."  That,  though,  was  not 
Andy.  He  was  rather  silent  in  his  own  house;  else- 
where, he  was  dumb. 

"Come  right  upstairs,  then.  We  can  take  your  bag 
along  and  put  it  in  your  room  before  we  breakfast." 
He  left  it  to  the  boy,  changed  his  mind,  took  it  himself, 
and  led  the  way.  Up  a  winding  staircase  it  went,  at 
top  to  another,  down  a  dim  hall,  past  many  doors,  by 
hordes  of  boys.    They  eventually  stopped. 

Mr.  James  did  not  knock,  and  they  surprised  a  long, 
lean  fellow  who  was  trying  to  arrange  a  round,  brushy 
cowlick  to  the  best  advantage  of  a  yellow  head. 

"Ah,  Moore,  I  fear  you  wOl  be  late.    The  second 


REFINEMENT  127 

bell  has  rung.  You  must  not  let  the  little  things  of 
life  detract  from  more  serious  aspects.  Dress  more 
quickly,  or  plan  to  rise  earlier." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"And,  Moore,  this  is  Andrew  Johnson.  He  has  come 
to  room  with  you.  Try  to  make  him  at  home.  I 
shall  leave  your  bag  here,  Johnson.  Come  below,  both 
of  you,  as  soon  as  you  are  ready." 

Mr.  James  left. 

Andy  looked  at  the  room.  All  rented  lodgings  are 
bad,  these  were  almost  free.  He  inspected  the  other 
boy. 

"What's  your  name?" 

"Crampton." 

"  'Cramp?'    Cramp-what?" 

"Heh!  don't  try  to  be  funny,  or  I'll  bump  your 
head.  Drop  your  bag  and  quit  starin'.  Let's  go  to 
breakfast." 

Andy's  intentions  having  been  pacific,  even  amiable, 
they  started  off.  The  other's  temper  was  equally  so, 
for  he  took  no  part  in  the  fun-making  which  met  them 
at  the  dining-room.  The  place  was  large.  It  was  also 
full  —  full  of  boys  and  girls,  noisy,  eating.  All  stopped 
to  see.  The  styles  of  the  Fork  were  local,  a  matter  of 
something  to  wear.  Girls  giggled.  The  boys'  re- 
ception was  not  so  refined,  as  four  or  five  shied  re- 
marks or  slanted  food  fragments  to  welcome  the 
rare  little  figure.  But  saggy  coat  and  calico  shirt,  large 
feet  in  stubbed-out  shoes,  brief  sleeves  that  early  lose 
their  arms  and  reddened  hands,  tan  stockings  patched 
in  black,  and  pants  not  free  of  reenforcement  are 
a  joy. 

Their  stroll  was  long.  The  morning  had  been  full 
of  gauntlets.  If  Andy  were  aware  of  what  progressed, 
he  gave  no  sign  at  the  table.    The  master  at  the  head 


128  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

promptly  filled  up  a  plate,  the  pupil  worked  in  an  effi- 
cient silence. 

A  bell  cut  short  the  meal.  Conducted  by  his  robm- 
mate,  Andy  passed  from  dining-room  to  study-hall, 
where  fresher  troubles  met  with  novel  pleasures. 

He  was  sampled  in  several  classes,  and  proved  to 
doubting  masters  that  Slab  Fork  had  a  share  of  "r's." 
Tried  again  at  recess,  he  determined  for  the  pupils  that 
certain  of  the  woodsbred  knew  other  things  than 
boards.  A  clever  lad.  Cramp  said  his  name  was  Vogel, 
pointed  a  joke  at  Andy's  foreign  look  and  funny  ways. 
Obligingly,  Andy  seized  the  boy  about  his  neck  and 
urged  him  down.  Intentions  went  still  further,  but  the 
bell  rang. 

With  night  there  followed  weak,  stray  thoughts.  It 
came  to  Andy  that  though  the  Fork  was  bare,  poor, 
cold,  the  logger's  hut  still  had  a  store  of  homely 
qualities.  Andy  resolved  to  write  a  letter,  which 
showed  how  much  his  depths  were  moved,  for  Andy  was 
fifteen  and  very  normal. 

Crampton's  books  preempted  the  small  pine  stand 
that  served  in  many  things,  by  night  for  research. 
Andy  was  new,  without  too  much  of  lodging  house  re- 
sourcefulness. His  eye  roved  for  a  bit.  The  dresser 
was  high,  the  wash-stand  low  and  full  and  rather 
splashy.  The  chairs  were  two,  as  also  the  boys.  In  a 
corner,  packed  as  when  it  left  Slab  Fork,  squatted  the 
serviceable  form  of  Andy's  telescope.  Lifting  it  not 
without  effort  to  a  knee,  he  then  sat  down  again, 
thinking  perhaps  to  unpack  it.  The  telescope  was 
full  and  plump,  if  lumpy.  Suppose  he  write  his  letter 
on  it. 

"Heh,  Cramp,  through  with  the  ink?" 

"Yeah,  just  a  minute,  what'chu  want  it  for?" 

"Write  a  letter.    Got  some  paper?" 


REFINEMENT  129 

"Sure,  here  y'are,  ink  too.    Take  the  table." 
"No,  you  aren't  hardly  through  with  it.    I  c'n  use 
this  all  right,"  added  the  boy,  keeping  the  wrinkled, 
seamy  bag  upon  his  knee. 

A  pen  and  blotter  hurtled  by  air-line,  and  ink  came 
thence  by  two  long  arms  that  reached  and  met.  He 
started  work.  And  doubt  not  that  it  was  work.  Have 
you  ever  been  fifteen?  His  head  for  some  moments 
received  a  share  of  the  scratching  that  soon  was  audible 
as  the  blunted  schoolboy  pen  began  to  crawl  across 
the  paper.  It  did  not  scratch  there  long,  nor  fast,  and 
where  a  canvas  rib  came  through  the  telescope  appeared 
occasional  bumps  and  splashes.  The  ink  was  of  the 
thickish  mellow  type  obtaining  in  the  boarding-house 
and  country  school,  the  paper  of  the  sort  the  best 
ancestors  used.  The  youth  bore  heavily  and  conscien- 
tiously upon  the  paper,  and  over  half  a  page  he  made 
his  mark.  Errors  and  blots  illuminated  it.  His  mother 
kept  it. 

"Dear  Mother:  — 

Father  brought  me  down  to  here  the  other 
night.  He  was  with  me  that  night,  and  then 
he  went  home  in  the  morning.  That  was  this 
morning.  We  stayed  at  a  hotel  all  night, 
and  did  not  get  up  till  the  train  went  out  at 
five  or  six  o'clock.  It  has  been  a  long  day. 
I  am  getting  tired. 

This  morning  a  man  named  'Hub'  gave  me 
a  ride.  He  is  a  blacksmith,  and  he  has  a 
shop  where  he  shoes  horses. 

I  have  a  room-mate.    I  call  him  'Cramp.' 
I  miss  you  very  much,  so  I  will  close. 

Love,  from  Andy." 


130  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

Laughter  from  Cramp  broke  in  on  letter-making. 

"Ha!  This  is  ^oorf,  Andy.  I  couldn't  get  the  answer 
to  a  problem  in  this  book,  so  I  found  it  in  the  back  and 
worked  the  darn  thing  hindwards." 

Andy  was  mildly  interested.  Up  at  the  Fork  they 
didn't  have  such  books,  an  Algebra.  They  didn't  have 
answers  in  the  back,  either;  in  fact,  according  to  Miss 
Myra,  most  of  her  charges  lacked  answers  about  the 
back  of  their  heads.  Andy  saw  the  light  by  Crampton's 
aid.  The  latter,  undeniably  elated  by  his  late  afflatus, 
proposed  a  trip  below. 

"We  can  go  to  the  library,  Andy.  You're  supposed  to 
study,  but  there's  other  books  too.  Sometimes,  when 
I'm  all  through  studying  for  an  evening,  I  go  down  and 
read." 

"Read  what,  Cramp?" 

"Oh,  lots  of  things.  'Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,'  once,  and 
then  I  got  hold  of  'Arabian  Nights,'  too,  but  they  put 
that  away.    Too  exciting,  they  told  me.    Come  on." 

They  went,  and  while  Crampton  prospected  for  ex- 
citing covers,  Andy  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  browsed 
about  a  few  shelves-full  of  books.  It  was  wonderful. 
There  surely  were  a  himdred,  anyway.  They  looked 
like  a  lot.  He  turned  the  pages  of  a  few  that  must  have 
caught  the  eye  of  several  schoolboy  generations,  for 
their  corners  were  slanting  away  and  they  had  much- 
torn  leaves  and  weak  backs.  Next  he  saw  some  of  the 
others,  carelessly  at  first.  Curious,  these  interested 
him.  Many  of  the  leaves  were  still  as  fresh,  uncut,  as 
when  some  master's  hand  had  placed  the  volumes 
there  long  years  ago.  The  boyish  touch  had  passed 
them  by.  Poems  at  the  Fork  were  neither  current  nor 
believed.  He  stole  a  look  at  one  —  what  was  it,  now? 
"When  the  green  gits  back  on  the  trees,"  and  he  was 
back  among  the  trees  himself,  a  fish-pole  in  his  hand, 


REFINEMENT  131 

some  bait  beside  his  feet,  a  bluish  cloud-flecked  sky 
above,  when  Crampton's  voice  cut  in, 

"Aw,  let's  go,  Andy.    Getting  late." 

The  fish-pole  dropped  from  his  hands,  the  greening 
trees  faded  away,  and  he  answered, 

"Yes,  we'll  go." 

But  he  marked  that  place  with  a  fragment  of  paper. 

Again  they  were  upstairs,  beside  the  telescope  which 
Crampton's  curiosity  and  kindness,  mixed,  helped  to 
persuade  the  other  should  be  opened  for  disposal  of 
his  "things." 

"And  I'll  give  you  the  bottom  drawer  of  the  dresser, 
Andy,  with  one  side  of  the  wash-stand." 

The  sack  was  opened.  Its  filler  was  a  motley  mess  of 
clean  red  handkerchiefs,  a  piece  of  soap,  a  good-sized, 
red-edged  towel  and  brace  of  hose;  the  bulk  a  pair 
of  real  gum  boots,  in  the  stamp  of  his  father's  size. 
The  rest,  what  there  was,  he  wore.  There  was  not  even 
a  fall  tonic.  But  as  they  were  having  a  little  boy-like 
talk  before  undressing,  they  heard  a  laugh  out  in 
the  hall.    Mr.  James  knocked,  and  opened  their  door. 

He  said,  "There's  a  man  here  to  see  you,  Andrew." 
Mr.  James  suggested  "what  a  man,"  though  Andy 
hardly  noticed.  "It's  after  hours,  of  course,  but  he 
said  that  it  was  important  and  that  he  was  leaving  in 
the  morning,  so  I  had  him  come  right  up." 

The  laugh  rang  again.  Andy  rose  and  looked  out. 
He  saw  why.  Boys'  heads  were  out  of  doors  and  a 
rough,  clumsy  fellow  stood  there.  He  wouldn't  have 
looked  that  way  at  the  Fork,  but  Andy  had  been  from 
there  a  day.  He  couldn't  have  laughed,  yet  he  saw  why 
the  others  had.    The  yeast  of  education  was  at  work. 

"Bill  Boddfish!"  cried  the  lad,  as  the  big  fellow 
reached  in  and  seized  his  hand  with  a  painfully  sincere 
clasp. 


132  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

"Remember,  Andrew,  it  is  very  late,"  put  in  the 
master.  Right  there  Bill,  flushing  from  the  laughter 
and  the  teacher's  words,  came  in  and  came  to  a  point 
as  he  had  never  done  back  home. 

"It's  just  this,  Andy,"  said  the  man,  "the  boys  in 
Eureky,  back  home,  had  a  meetin'  last  night.  They 
thought  as  mebbe,  they  thought  as  how  you  might, 
well  they  got  to  thinkin'  mebbe  you  would  need  a  little 
somethin'  down  here,  and  though  we  ain't  none  of  us 
anyways  rich,  nor  the  Lodge  neither,  and-  most  like 
can't  afford  it,  they  sent  me  down  tonight  to  give  you 
this.  And  to  say  'Good  luck,  boy,  we  hope  you'll  win!' 
If  there's  anythin',  any  time,  as  old  Bill  Boddfish  or  any 
others  of  the  boys  can  do  for  ye,  just  let  us  know,  and 
I  tell  ye,  we'll  be  there!" 

Andy  had  no  time  to  reply  when  the  rough-clad  man, 
gripping  his  fingers  again,  was  out  of  the  room. 
Laughter  denoted  his  progress. 

Andy  had  a  look  at  the  dirty-wrapped  parcel  thrust 
in  his  hand.  There  was  a  little  bunch,  and  a  paper. 
Inside  the  lump,  so  Crampton  said,  for  he  had  never 
seen  the  sort  before,  were  three  ten-dollar  pieces,  gold. 
The  paper  held  a  grimy  note,  just  "From  the  boys  at 
home.    Don't  never  forget  them.    They  won't  you." 

Bill  Boddfish  had  another  call  to  make  that  night. 
It  was  not  far  off,  and  he  did  not  tarry. 

Holden  Gates'  was  across  the  street.  As  surround- 
ings and  hospitality  varied,  so  was  there  distinction 
in  the  greetings  of  Eureka.  Again  he  brought  and  left 
a  note.  It  also  had  effects,  immediate.  Boddfish  re- 
turned scowling  to  the  autumn  witchery  of  that  night. 
Gates  went  thoughtful  to  a  whiskey-soda  and  a  fiine 
grate  fire.  "At  it  again,"  he  mused,  and  felt  the  sharp 
prod  of  the  note. 

Smiling,  he  made  a  paper  spiral  of  it.    It  caught  from 


REFINEMENT  133 

the  blaze.  After  all  you  might  only  call  it  a  warning. 
He  moved  the  spoon  easily  in  the  glass,  and  lit  a  fresh 
cigar. 


XX 

We  knew  a  boy,  we  find  a  man.  Graduation  and 
commencement  were  nearby.  Five  years  of  Mapleton's 
Academy  drew  to  a  close,  five  years  of  work,  of  study, 
of  struggle  —  of  struggle  to  bring  to  a  common  end 
the  threads  of  many  things  that  more  than  once  had 
almost  ravelled  out.  There  were  self-sacrifice  and  hard- 
ship, at  the  Fork.  There  was  adversity  at  Mapleton. 
Together  they  goaded  the  boy.  Eureka  sometimes 
came  to  the  fore,  and  looked  up.  He  never  sent 
to  them. 

It  was  five  years  of  managing..  He  saw  little  of 
his  fellows  and  their  homes;  that  would  have  taken 
clothes.  He  did  not  recreate;  that  would  have  needed 
time.  He  did  not  dissipate;  that  would  have  eaten 
money.  He  spent  a  portion  of  the  day  in  studying,  the 
rest  in  working  to  continue.  He  accepted  sacrifice, 
and  returned  courage.  Holidays  and  Sabbaths  were  an 
opportunity,  for  extra  effort.  Days  were  for  labor, 
nights  for  bad  dreams.  He  had  his  feet  hard  on  the 
ground.  It  was  his  way,  and  also  kept  the  holes  from 
showing  in  the  soles. 

If  you  are  fortunate,  and  think  of  life  in  terms  of 
bills  and  notes  and  metal  dollars,  be  well  enough 
content.  If  you  are  not,  then  wait  for  today  and  hope 
for  tomorrow.  The  Arabs  have  it  that  "When  fortune 
bringeth  thee  affliction,  console  thyself  by  remembering 
that  one  day  thou  must  see  prosperity,  and  another 
day,  difficulty.  .  .  ."     Only  this  was  all  difficulty. 


134  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

If  Andrew  had  had  less  resource  he  probably  would 
not  have  made  it;  if  he  had  done  less  he  could  not. 
The  Fork  gave  away  an  old  little  boy.  The  town  of 
Mapleton  took  him  as  he  was,  worked  him,  drove  him, 
hurt  him,  buffeted,  outraged,  shaped  and  inspired  him, 
and  made  of  him  an  old  young  man.  He 
took  five  years  where  teachings  came  in  books,  and 
in  that  school  where  learning  came  from  life.  He 
browsed  haphazardly  on  many  things,  and  landed 
hard  on  one  or  two,  among  these  elocution.  His  school 
was  study,  his  parties  were  work.  His  marks  were 
passing,  his  work  was  vital.  He  liked  cake,  but  he  grew 
up  on  bread. 

Short  vacation  periods  he  spent  in  Mapleton.  There 
was  a  factory  where  he  earned  a  little.  In  winter, 
through  a  man  up  at  the  Fork  who  knew  the  foreman, 
he  also  got  a  job  in  town  at  taking  stock.  The  plant 
was  shut  down,  and  they  let  him  work  at  night  scaling 
lumber,  because  he  knew  his  subject  fairly  well.  It  did 
not  take  long,  but  it  helped  him  to  spend  his  time  when 
there  was  nothing  to  do  but  study.  He  did  that  when  he 
went  home.  Odd  times  like  Saturdays  he  filled  in  at 
this  plant,  working  at  piece  rates  that  usually  tobog- 
ganed down  as  your  production  rose.  It  was  a  touch 
of  home. 

Andrew's  birthright  had  not  been  pride.  If  pride 
had  been  born  at  the  Fork,  it  would  have  died 
in  Mapleton,  so  it  was  better.  He  understood 
the  shoveling  of  snow.  Odd  times  he  had  a  chance 
as  waiter  for  affairs  of  large  proportion.  He  washed 
his  own  clothes,  and  others'  dishes.  Most  generally  he 
had  his  pay,  such  as  there  was,  in  cash.  Sometimes  it 
had  been  clothes,  twice  it  was  pipe  lead  no  longer  used 
for  water.  The  first  he  sold,  five  pounds  of  it,  at  T.  E. 
Brodribb  Watts',  five  cents  the  pound.     That  after- 


REFINEMENT  135 

noon  more  work  and  better  wages  for  the  same  old  lady 
had  netted  some  ten  pounds  in  twisted  coils.  The 
bottom  dropped  out  of  the  market.  The  hardware 
husband  of  the  social  matron  said  the  price  had  fallen 
since  that  morning.  Things  never  fell  that  way  in 
Mapleton.  He  got  three  cents,  with  an  insight  into 
Mr.  Watts'  success. 

Starting  the  long  warm  spell  of  summer  he  rode  the 
caboose  to  the  Fork,  where  he  reverted  to  the  life  of 
yesterday.  He  lived  in  the  home  of  the  Johnsons,  and 
all  things  were  as  he  had  left  them.  Nothing  had 
altered,  save  that  his  father  looked  much  older,  his 
mother  far  more  tired  if  such  could  be.  His  little 
brother  had  followed  the  way,  short  months  of  child- 
hood and  school,  and  then  the  years  of  the  mill.  When 
he  was  able,  George  should  also  have  a  chance.  At 
present  Andrew  was  the  only  luxury  they  could  afford. 
He  knew  this,  and  he  did  not  like  it,  but  it  was  the 
only  path  that  led  away.  His  father  still  worked, 
though  perhaps  not  so  hard.  The  Company  did  not 
pay  him  more,  but  on  the  other  hand  they  had  not 
"cut"  his  wages. 

Too  old  for  the  place  and  boxes  of  his  breaking- 
in,  Andrew  spent  his  summers  in  the  sawmill,  often  in 
the  place  that  Hans  had  filled.  He  was  paid  not  less 
and  neither  was  he  paid  a  cent  more  than  men  who 
had  brought  young  lives  to  the  Fork,  who  offered  them 
unsparingly;  and  decades  later  had  them  given  back, 
poorer,  weak  and  frayed,  and  very  badly  twisted.  And 
though  it  was  a  thing  he  knew,  and  understood, 
he  hated  it.  He  hated  it  —  but  not  as  the  rest  of 
the  Fork.  From  endurance  and  submission,  then  final 
conquest,  their  hate  was  passive,  cold.  It  was  not 
the  wholesome  hate  of  hope,  but  the  all-damned  aban- 
don of  despair. 


136  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

One  day,  it  was  a  Sunday,  Andrew  climbed  far  up 
a  thinly  timbered  hill  that  topped  the  morbid  place  be- 
low. He  needed  fresher  air.  Up  there,  he  stopped 
to  rest;  then  gained  his  feet  again,  and  rising  shook 
a  knotted  fist  at  what  he  saw.  "And  I  will  smash  you 
yet,"  he  cried.  But  just  then  clouds  of  smoke  rose  up, 
hid  all,  and  seemed  to  taunt  him. 

In  leaving  the  Fork  and  reaching  Mapleton  each  fall, 
he  merely  parted  with  work,  and  love,  for  work  and 
places  that  did  not  know  him,  had  not  troubled  to 
understand  him,  and  always  largely  ignored  him.  Which 
allowed  him  to  hold  a  lead  in  school,  and  carry  out  his 
purpose.  As  a  boy  he  was  not  unsocial,  and  he  un- 
doubtedly did  not  enjoy  life  entirely  shut  in  by  school- 
room, teachers  and  pupils.  However,  it  was  all  he 
could  afford.  Wait  just  a  little;  he  would  snatch  a 
taste  of  life  less  bitter  than  the  acrid  draught  he  knew. 

Andrew's  friends  along  the  close  were  largely  those 
he  made  at  first.  To  Crampton  he  was  warmly 
attached,  and  the  sentiments  that  he  himself  inspired 
varied  from  the  fist-compelled  respect  of  Karl  Vogel 
to  a  very  real  and  patent  liking  owned  by 
nearly  all  the  rest.  His  excellent  preceptors 
looked  for  him  to  go  far,  and  Mr.  James  had  often 
said,  "A  lovely  child."  Which  he  was  not,  being 
largely  the  shape  and  size  of  a  man.  Yet  he  was  not  bad 
to  look  at,  for  his  eyes  were  warmly  blue  and  frankly 
honest,  his  hair  had  slowly  turned  from  very  light  to 
a  brown  like  ripened  cornsilk,  and  his  frame  was  stout 
and  straight.  His  hands  showed  work,  his  voice  held 
a  very  slight  ring  of  experience,  and  there  was  nothing 
hesitant  about  him. 

At  the  commencement  of  his  course  Andrew  was 
mostly  innocent  of  funds;  at  his  leave-taking  he  was 
still  more  free  of  debt.     Between  the  two  there  lay 


REFINEMENT  137 

a  highly  taut  financial  era,  but  the  final  balance  was  a 
credit. 

The  mill  that  made  him  produced  a  man.  They  used 
to  say  he  had  'most  everything  but  clothes;  he  might 
have  been  a  gentleman.  Men  liked  him,  boys  admired 
him,  old  ladies  trusted  him,  and  no  young  women  knew 
him. 

Commencement  time  had  come  to  Mapleton.  It  was 
a  siege  of  inventories.  Taking  stock  two  days  before, 
Andrew  found  in  his  and  Crampton's  room  a  stack  of 
books.  He  was  not  looking  for  books.  He  was  looking 
for  a  shirt  and  hat  fit  to  appear  at  Mapleton's  Grand 
Opera  House  the  second  night  succeeding,  when  the 
graduates,  among  them  these  boys,  were  slated  to  be 
seated  on  the  stage,  examined  by  an  audience,  in  turn 
examining,  hearing  their  middle  names  read  out  in  full 
by  Mr.  Turner,  and  in  all  good  time  receiving  their 
diplomas,  with  ribbon. 

A  distant  future  held  forth  no  disquietude.  It  could 
only  with  great  pains  outstrip  the  past.  Immediately, 
though,  there  was  that  shirt  and  hat.  Johnson  had 
known  for  some  time  that  in  the  realm  of  shirts  there 
is  judicious  virtue  in  a  pair  of  scissors,  likewise,  in 
terms  of  hats,  in  close  employment  of  the  brush. 
Andy's  had  been  virtuous  for  very  long,  and  there 
are  limits. 

Crampton  was  out.  For  that  matter,  Crampton 
usually  was.  He  was  not  poor,  for  his  people  were  well- 
to-do  folk  at  the  other  end  of  the  county,  that  part 
of  Hamlin  which  is  lowland,  rich-soiled,  prosperous. 
His  days  were  partway  spent  in  study,  his  evenings 
socially,  for  he  was  popular  and  clever.  Odd  times 
he  reported  for  the  Crier,  and  had  nourished  aspira- 
tions of  a  better  press.  The  two  shared  much,  but 
there  are  things  which  nearly  everyone  would  keep, 


138  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

alone.  His  poverty  was  one  of  Andrew's.  It  was 
apparent  enough,  but  Crampton  did  not  see  it. 

Johnson  fondled  his  books.  Rapidly  he  sized  them 
up.  Once  they  held  knowledge,  and  now  perhaps  some 
other  good  might  be  squeezed  out  of  them.  The 
method  was  not  new  to  him.  It  is  a  question  if  many 
money-gaining  chances  were,  though  as  he  often  told 
himself,  it  was  remarkable  how  seldom  any  of  them 
"took."  Appraising  carefully,  he  was  not  long  in  mak- 
ing up  his  choice. 

There  was  a  place  the  buying  public  knew  as  "Maple- 
ton's  Che£^  Store."  Said  public  took  the  title's 
"cheap"  to  mean  that  that  was  how  and  what  they 
bought  —  the  firm.  The  public  was  on  one  occasion 
right,  for  everyone  had  opportunity  to  pay  as  much  for 
what  was  sold  as  any  place  in  town.  The  firm  was 
Filcher  &  Schwab.  Yes,  it  was  he,  of  the  Crier.  The 
Store  was  close  to  the  Crier.  Mr.  Schwab  owned  all 
of  the  Crier  and  part  of  the  store.  It  was  the  widest 
advertised  emporiimi  in  town;  he  had  to  fill  up  the 
paper  with  something.  Their  bargains  were  known  so 
far  as  the  Crier  was  heard  in  the  hills,  about  three 
miles  out. 

Monopoly  may  thrive  in  cities.  It  often  shows  the 
great  good  taste  to  choose  a  country  place,  and  Filcher 
&  Schwab  confessed  and  easily  assumed  a  growing 
trade,  for  they  alone  sold  schoolbooks.  Mild 
education  was  really  taking  "holt"  round  Mapleton,  so 
that  each  partner  had  his  buggy,  with  a  horse  to  draw 
him  of  a  Sunday.  They  did  a  nice  business;  their 
wives  went  out. 

Andrew  repaired  to  this  exclusive  place.  Mr.  Filcher 
was  in,  behind  the  counter  where  fountain  pens  were  ly- 
ing in  their  dust.  As  he  saw  the  pile  of  second-handed 
books,  the  partner's  smile  paled  visibly,  as  he  had 


REFINEMENT  139 

looked  for  sales.  This  was  not  quite  so  good.  Mr. 
Filcher,  you  will  remember,  was  "afflicted."  Yet  his 
blue  eyes  saw  life  bravely,  searchingly,  as  if  looking 
for  something  he  could  not  find.  This,  however,  meant 
no  inability  to  sense,  commercially. 

Andrew  deposited  six  books.  The  man  of  business 
picked  them  up.  He  laid  down  the  six,  and  selected 
one.  He  focussed  on  it,  and  bent  to  look  it  through 
and  through  as  fingers  spun  the  pages.  His  nose  sped 
up  and  down  between  the  leaves  and  seemed  to  smell 
the  ink  and  run  down  all  the  turned-in  corners. 

"H-m-m,  pencil  marks.  Ah!  a  blot.  Cover 
spoiled.  Corners  of  this  one  bad.  H-m-m."  He 
found  no  good  in  any  of  the  six,  and  Johnson  longed 
for  more  and  better  books.  He  tasted  the  worst.  It 
came. 

"A  dollar  and  twenty-six,  young  man.  Aren't  really 
worth  it,  but  if  you'll  leave  them  all  I  guess  we  can 
allow  you  that.  Of  course  you  don't  care  for  the 
money,  do  you?  just  want  to  take  it  out  in  trade?  You 
do?  Here,  always  want  to  help  you  out  in  any  way  we 
can.    Good-bye,  come  again." 

Their  generosity  had  indigestion,  Andrew  mused,  as 
he  took  the  change  and  left.  Reflecting  on  the  deal, 
he  offered  gratitude  that  old  Filcher's  eyesight  was  no 
better.  With  this  addition  to  his  buying  power,  he  had 
in  due  time  in  his  room  a  graduation  shirt  and  hat, 
slightly  worn. 

That  night  the  logging  train  brought  down  a  little 
box.  He  got  it  in  the  Post  Office  and  went  on  home. 
He  usually  did,  and  to-night  his  graduation  theme  was 
not  complete.  It  was  very  light,  this  package,  and 
small,  and  the  address  was  in  his  mother's  dear,  stiff, 
hand.  There  was  a  card  inside.  That,  too,  was  in  her 
writing,  as  was  also  a  crumpled  note.    The  latter  said 


140  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

"Congratulations  to  my  dear.  We  think  of  you  and 
wish  it  was  a  hundred  more." 

The  card  again  came  to  his  notice,  "From  Father." 
What  could  it  be? 

"Open  it,  and  you'll  find  out,"  suggested  the  prac- 
tical Crampton,  just  leaving  for  the  evening. 

He  cut  the  cord,  and  tore  a  little  piece  of  yellow 
paper.  A  small,  flat  object  met  his  touch,  an  edge 
exposed  to  view  and  there  was  something  he  well  knew. 
Cramp  glimpsed  a  gold  piece,  and  went  out. 

Andrew  saw  more,  and  something  in  him  gave  way. 
Thin,  the  brand  of  America  rusted  by  time,  he  knew  it; 
"i860"  said  the  faint-raised  figures  near  the  edge;  un- 
folding, he  saw  another  day. 

There  is  a  man,  young,  strong,  in  flush  of  life.  He  is 
in  uniform,  and  has  a  gun.  There  are  other  men. 
Together  all  jump  from  a  shallow  bit  of  ditch;  shots, 
a  part  of  them  advance;  they  run,  shouting,  firing, 
loading.  Half  left,  a  third,  but  these  go  on.  They  gain 
the  top.  Andrew  is  a  boy  again.  He  is  sitting  by  his 
father's  side.  The  boy  is  at  the  Fork,  but  the  soldier 
gains  the  hill. 

Sometime  an  army  pay-day  comes.  The  first  war- 
envelope  contains  the  bit  of  gold.  There  was  probably 
never  a  later  day  when  the  man  could  not  have  used  it; 
there  were  times  when  it  needed  to  go.  The  old  man 
had  given  much. 

The  next  night  was  the  last  before  his  graduation. 
There  were  exercises  at  the  Hall,  an  entertainment  for 
the  Seniors  by  the  Juniors.  Andrew  was  ready  to  leave 
the  School  when  a  man  swung  up  the  old,  long  walk. 
He  hurried.  It  was  the  conductor  of  the  Slab  Fork 
train,  just  now  come  in.  John  Williams  was  a  Maple- 
tonian,  but  knew  the  folk  of  the  Fork. 


REFINEMENT  141 

"Andy,  son,  I've  got  bad  news  for  you,"  he  blurted 
out.    John  had  sympathy  instead  of  tact. 

"Why,  what  is  it,  John?"  asked  the  lad.  "None  of 
the  people  are  .  .  .  ?" 

"Well,  the  fact  is,  your  father  .  .  ." 

"Come,  quick!    What  is  it?" 

"Well,  your  father,  he  was  pretty  sick  today,  sud- 
den-like, and  ..." 

"Yes,  yes,  go  on." 

"Your  mother  wanted  me  to  send  for  you,  because  to- 
night, tonight  —  he  died."  He  could  add  nothing 
more,  rested  his  arm  for  a  moment  about  the  bowed 
shoulders  of  the  boy,  and  left. 

Soon  after  daylight,  on  the  morning  of  his  graduation, 
Andy  climbed  aboard  the  dirty  red  caboose  of  Williams' 
logging  train.  The  ride  was  full  of  bitterness,  and 
memories,  and  slipping  confidence.  The  sun  shone, 
and  the  birds  cried  out  as  always  from  the  burnished 
foliage;  but  the  forest  of  trees  looked  black,  the  sing- 
ing pierced  his  heart.  Clouds  of  smoke  eddied  and 
swirled  from  the  squat  dark  stack  of  the  "logger," 
and  it  choked  his  voice  and  filled  his  eyes,  and 
turned  his  clothing  black.  The  ride  was  long, 
the  caboose  rocketing  back  and  forth  with  twist- 
ings  of  the  rails.  The  train  crawled  away  from 
the  fertile  country,  into  a  fringe  of  timber,  out 
of  it  then  to  brush  land.  Not  for  miles 
could  Andrew  catch  a  hint  of  what  the  early  land  was 
like  before  man  came  to  rip  His  handiwork  away. 
Clouds  gradually  edged  up  across  the  sky,  and  it  was 
raining  at  the  Fork. 

Pete  was  there  with  his  democrat,  and  Charlie  WaU 
to  help  in  lowering  a  shook-built  box  from  one  of  the 
forward  cars.  All  shook  his  hand,  and  Charlie 
whispered  "We  must  be  submissive."    In  driving  to 


142  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

the  store,  Pete  spoke  to  one  who  shared  their  wagon- 
top  against  the  rain,  "The  cemetery  sure  is  filling  up," 
and  the  companion  answered  him,  "Yeh,  it  ain't  a  very 
nice  day  for  a  funeral." 

During  the  service  it  rained.  Water  trickled  down 
the  walls  of  the  closed  little  room  where  they  sat,  and 
the  roads  to  the  hill  were  mud. 

The  next  day  the  sun  shone  again,  and  Andy  walked 
with  his  mother  to  the  newest  mound,  now  gone  per- 
haps, that  morning  bare  and  sloping,  sprinkled  with 
little  stones  and  sunk  with  the  marks  of  stamping 
feet.  As  they  had  passed  the  Company's  store  on  their 
way,  a  flag  in  the  window  caught  his  mother's  eye. 

"Your  father,  how  he  loved  the  flag,"  she  thought, 
and  said  as  much.  Andrew  darted  in,  and  bought  it. 
It  was  not  a  large  flag,  and  it  was  not  silk,  but  it  was 
the  only  one  the  Company  had.  Somehow,  the  Fork 
did  not  seem  to  run  so  very  much  to  things  like  that. 
Yet  this  had  been  expensive,  for  its  ransom  was  the 
old  gold-piece. 

For  many  weeks  the  symbol  played  above  the  man 
who  thought  it  good.  The  rains  fell  on  it.  They 
streaked  the  field  of  blue  with  white  and  ran  the  red 
with  blue,  but  the  suns  of  June  and  July  and  the  early 
autumn  caressed  it,  warmed  it,  and  the  cotton  dried. 

Long  before  Andrew  had  gone  back  to  Mapleton. 
He  had  had  his  Commencement. 

XXI 

A  PIECE  of  fortune,  good  fortune,  developed  on 
Johnson's  return.  Crampton  met  him  as  the  logging 
train  wheezed  in  that  night,  Crampton  now  "of  the 
Crier." 

The  two  walked  over-town  together.    En  route  the 


REFINEMENT  143 

latter  said,  "Say,  Andy,  remember  telling  me  you'd 
like  to  study  law  some  time?  Well,  I  was  tsdking 
with  Mr.  Gates  today,  just  interviewing  him  about  a 
little  matter,  understand,  and  he  said,  'Moore,  where's 
that  young  chap  Johnson  I  used  to  see  around  with 
you?'  I  told  him  how  you'd  had  to  leave  here  for 
awhile,  and  he  added,  'Seems  to  me  he  used  to  think 
he'd  like  to  study  law.  Isn't  that  right?'  I  said  I 
thought  it  was.  So  he  wants  to  see  you  about  it. 
Probably  he's  in  his  office  now." 

He  was.  Yes,  Gates  &  Vogel  needed  a  boy.  He'd 
have  a  chance  to  study  law.  They  really  wanted  a 
chap  for  the  inkwells  and  waste  baskets,  so  one  had 
suggested  a  student,  as  it  reversed  the  obligation,  and 
saved  a  bit  on  wages. 

Some  time  before  his  graduation  Johnson  had  settled 
on  the  law  as  the  readiest  means  to  an  end.  A  con- 
nection with  Holden  Gates  would  hardly,  ordinarily, 
have  struck  the  proper  chord.  Yet  why  not?  Gates, 
did  you  trace  it  back,  had  almost  brought  him  here. 
Carry  it  a  little  further:  let  him  provide  the  education. 
It  was  not  the  firm  he  would  select,  given  a  larger 
field,  but  since  no  Blackstone  offered,  here  was  Gates. 
He  already  knew  the  firm  somewhat  from  having  done 
small  jobs  in  after-hours.  These  jobs  had  attracted, 
he  believed,  some  amiable  notice;  and  not  much  money. 
Hermann  Vogel  and  Holden  Gates  were  two  success- 
ful, modern  men.  There  was  also  Mr.  Busby,  but  he 
needs  treatment  by  himself. 

The  evening's  interview  was  straightly  business-like. 
If  the  elder  knew  Johnson  to  be  of  the  Fork,  he  did 
not  say  so.  Neither  did  Johnson,  and  if  the  former 
were  even  aware  it  must  have  recommended  Johnson, 
for  there  was  one  thing  Gates  was  sure  —  he  under- 
stood the  Fork. 


144  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

Plenty  of  dusty  books,  small  wages  and  a  lodging 
were  provided.  Questions  of  his  work  were  not  ignored. 
They  came  to  terms,  and  by  another  day  Johnson's  still 
movable  and  somewhat  meagre  goods  were  all  trans- 
ferred to  a  room  above  the  office.  It  was  a  little  place, 
close  by  the  school  where  he  had  earned  five  years. 
He  could  study  through  the  day  and  at  night  —  this 
was  Mr.  Gates'  idea  —  the  office  would  be  safer.  Folks 
did  say  there'd  only  been  one  robbery  for  near  twenty 
years,  and  that  was  in  the  bakery.  Nevertheless  it 
pleased  the  lawyer,  and  was  free.  Just  down  around 
the  corner  there  was  Dave's. 

This  lawyers'  place  was  of  a  squatty  sort,  chucked 
down  inside  the  Court  House  square.  It  was  in  a 
corner,  near  the  lawn  that  bore  too  many  trees  for 
growing  grass.  The  little  office  was  "story-and-a-half" 
and  its  wall  were  clapboards,  with  a  roof  which  was  of 
shingles  that  dripped  moss.  It  looked  old  and  had 
stood  much. 

The  first  night,  going  to  his  quarters,  Johnson  found 
a  nickel  and  a  penny  on  the  downstairs  floor.  The 
next  day  he  returned  them.  Some  nights  later  arrived 
two  dimes,  carelessly  by  the  door.  These  also  he  picked 
up  and  laid  on  tlie  desk  of  one  of  the  firm.  Johnson 
dwelt  in  his  upstairs  room  a  long,  long  time;  later  he 
found  that  good  Mr.  Busby  made  plans  for  testing 
lodgers.  There  had  been  two  or  three  boys  before  who 
were  trustworthy  on  pennies,  but  they  succumbed 
to  dimes. 

It  was  after  the  first  breakfast  at  Dave's  that  John- 
son decided  to  go  there  for  dinner  and  supper.  Two 
meals  at  Dave's  were  better  than  three.  His  break- 
fasts afterward  were  simple  —  continental  —  that  he 
prepared  and  ate  himself.  Not  that  Dave's  breakfasts 
were  poor  or  insufficient,  either.    His  cooking  was  a 


REFINEMENT  145 

feature,  Dave  admitted  it,  and  as  for  hours,  you  ate  his 
morning  meal  at  any  time  you  liked  from  six  to  seven. 
Dave's  table  was  "dependable"  in  that  you  always  knew 
what  to  expect,  precisely.  Diet  differed  from  meal  to 
meal,  if  not  from  day  to  day,  because  in  the  dinners  of 
every  week  occurred  two  porks,  three  hams,  one  beef, 
and  a  chicken.    Suppers  dove-tailed,  but  were  cold. 

Dave  had  a  waitress  with  a  single  thought.  She 
could  get  exactly  one  thing  for  one  person,  and  at  one 
time.  Had  you  but  asked  her  what  cereals  they  had  in 
brew,  she  would  undoubtedly  have  answered,  "Ham 
and  eggs."  But  that  first  morning  she  hovered  over 
Johnson  with  "Pork  chop  and  fried  tomatoes."  She 
gave  it  as  a  command,  and  he  said,  "Yes." 

When  she  had  gone  B.  Fred  Parker,  who  basked  and 
was  happy  as  the  official  time-destroyer  of  the  place, 
volunteered  she  was  often  like  that.  Said  she  asked 
him  once  whether  he'd  have  beefsteak  or  coffee  and 
when  he  ordered  both,  blamed  if  he  got  either.  If  you 
stayed  there,  B.  Fred  said,  your  appetite  was  always 
good.  It  never  caught  up  with  the  meals.  The  woolly 
tablecloths,  fresh  weekly,  wore  service  decorations;  the 
napkins,  as  you  got  them,  suggested  other  plates  and 
faces;  the  dishes  were  not  always  there  in  strength  or 
pristine  freshness;  and  the  place  in  many  ways  de- 
served what  B.  Fred  said,  that  it  was  "cosmopilan." 
Dave's  eatin'  room  was  tapestried  in  brown,  abetted 
by  two  chromos,  one  fruit,  the  other  fowl. 

Johnson  had  returned  on  Friday.  That  night  and 
most  of  the  next  he  worked  at  packing,  unpacking,  and 
settling,  though  Crampton  helped  him  some.  Saturday 
night  he  took  dinner,  sat  on  Dave's  steps  as  long  as  he 
could,  then  got  to  his  room.  There  was  a  window  in 
the  front,  the  window,  and  there  he  sat  down  with  a 
pipe  in  his  hand. 


146  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

Buggies  and  carry-alls,  infrequent  automobiles  and 
many  passengers  afoot  were  passing.  Spavined  wagons 
paused  by  the  square,  where  horses  were  tied  while 
their  owners  entered  the  store  with  produce  hard- 
won  from  the  hills ;  then  went  on  by  with  many  a  gay, 
loud  laugh  and  happy  song,  for  it  was  Saturday  night 
and  "town."  That  was  enough  for  the  red-faced  rustic 
and  vigorous  maid  who  shouted  out  from  passing  rigs, 
or  ambled  arm-in-arm  and  cheek-to-jowl  about  the 
square.  As  they  circulated,  youth  helped  lass  by  the 
tip  of  her  muscled  elbow  across  the  wheel-tracks  of 
the  road  and  up  the  kerb  upon  the  other  side,  urged 
on  the  wench  that  back  home  could  take  a  couple 
furrows  at  a  bound  and  never  notice.  Varied  are  uses 
of  business  and  pleasure.  She  was  the  breed  that  holds 
her  young  man's  hat  when  they  are  out  together,  but 
they  were  happy,  certainly. 

"And  what  have  they?"  thought  the  man  from  his 
window.  "They  have  each  other,  at  least,"  he  might 
have  answered  himself,  "and  what  have  I?"  "You 
are  having  experience,"  his  voice  replied,  and  sounded 
harsh.  "Experience  —  "  yes,  that  was  it.  Great  stuff, 
too,  grand  old  thing  you  speak  of  satisfiedly,  some  time. 

He  thought  of  the  woods  and  the  country,  with  now 
this  little  town  —  all  small  and  alone,  as  he  —  and 
muttered  to  himself,  "If  I  ever  grow  rich,  and  old,  I 
shall  live  in  a  place  where  they  don't  have  loneliness." 

Somewhere,  off  across  the  square  by  Gates',  there 
came  the  silver  sound  of  music.  He  did  not  think  who 
brushed  the  keys,  nor  as  to  where  the  music  swelled, 
now  fell,  then  stopped,  or  started  on. 

From  his  window  he  reached  to  hear  the  poem  of 
the  keys.  Emotions  which  had  moved  him  since  a 
little  child,  unhappily  so  much,  were  changing  now. 
Like  the  lighthouse  by  the  sea  they  shifted,  high,  low. 


REFINEMENT  147 

now  seen  by  flashes,  yet  steady-burning  always.  The 
stars  which  were  pale,  and  the  moon,  which  had  been 
sharp  and  cold,  were  brighter  and  grew  warm. 

He  followed  it  along:  it  carried  him  across  the  land, 
it  led  him  by  a  battle,  showed  him  victory;  it  spoke 
of  far-off  cities,  life,  their  pathos,  and  their  joys;  he 
walked  in  a  fair  country,  and  birds  sang  from  the  trees 
that  stood  along  the  stream;  and  when  across  a  world 
he'd  gone  it  brought  him  back,  and  tears  stood  in  his 
eyes,  back  to  the  little  house,  his  home. 

But  there  it  spoke  of  other  things,  till  comradeship 
seemed  rare,  and  friendship  very  wonderful  but  dim; 
and  love,  the  greatest,  seemed  as  though  it  would  not 
come.  Yet  all  were  in  the  Heavens.  The  world  was 
new,  and  Someone  breathed  upon  it.  There  was  Life. 
Life  spoke  and  laughed,  and  wept,  when  out  of  the 
voices  and  laughter  and  tears  —  friendship  and  hope 
were  born.  And  they  gave  Love.  Love  cradled  ten- 
derness —  of  girl  for  man  and  man  for  girl,  nothing 
apart,  together  all;  the  smooth  and  the  rough,  the  vine 
and  the  tree. 

He  thinks  to  touch  that  hand  which  stirs  dreams  into 
life  ...  a  fierce,  re-echoing  chord,  a  softer,  fainting 
sound,  and  it  is  gone. 

The  Court  House  clock  strikes  out;  one  evening 
spent,  alone. 


XXII 

His  day  came  early.  Having  prepared  and  eaten  a 
pick-up  Sunday  breakfast,  Johnson  selected  from  his 
wardrobe  some  of  the  least  worn,  went  down  the  stairs 
of  his  office-home  and  to  the  street  outside. 

Summer  sang  in  the  air.     The  quietness  of   the 


148  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

village  Sabbath  was  punctured  by  the  drone  of  the 
bees  and  sharp  staccato  of  the  locusts,  shrilling  from 
the  trees  and  grass  about  the  square.  Birds  un- 
numbered trilled  and  sang  from  roofs  and  lawns  and 
streets,  and  in  the  air  above.  Occasionally  a  passing 
buggy-wheel  or  hoof  dropped  on  a  stone  —  and  that 
was  all.  Few  were  about,  and  he  proceeded  toward  the 
river. 

Down  where  the  smoking  stacks  of  factories  lifted 
dusky  fingers  toward  a  fairer  sky,  he  let  chance  lead. 
State  Street  ended  and  Mill  began.  Ended  also  the 
country  mansions  with  pressed-brick  fronts  and  cut- 
stone  steps,  the  shaded  lawns  and  homes  where  all 
were  still  asleep,  to  be  replaced  by  homes  without  a 
lawn  or  trees,  or  steps  of  stone  or  fronts  of  brick. 
But  in  them  they  were  up,  awake.  He  pressed  on 
where  the  Sweeneys,  and  the  Foleys,  and  the 
Mickeluskis  lived. 

On  little  porches  the  lord  of  the  manse  sat  out  in 
flannel  shirt  and  "galluses,"  and  old  house  slippers 
chafed  at  the  heel,  drawing  contentedly  on  the  stub 
of  a  pipe  as  he  tried  to  be  at  his  fullest  ease  in  the  one 
grand  day  of  seven.  Usually  he  failed,  for  he  shifted 
his  kitchen  chair  and  shook  the  juice  from  his  pipe 
impatiently,  moving  his  feet  in  and  out,  to  and 
fro,  in  the  faded  old  foot-gear  that  covered  them.  Some- 
times he  stood  up  pettishly  at  behest  of  a  slatternly 
woman,  who  occasionally  herself  appeared  to  complain 
of  one  of  the  numerous  progeny  who  were  up  and  about, 
inside  and  out,  pretty  much  ever3rwhere.  The  master, 
biting  an  oath,  thereupon  strode  awkwardly  within. 
Shortly  a  cry  of  a  different  key  announced  that  he 
had  reached  there,  with  another  lesson  taught  in  the 
practical  ways  of  the  plain. 

Dirty,  smoke-creased  curtain-rags  flew  out  of  win- 


REFINEMENT  149 

dows  or  were  sucked  away  as  the  eddying  heat  of  the 
factory  hollow  blew  in  and  through  the  dense  little 
shacks  with  hot  and  filthy  breath.  It  was  fresh  air. 
Clothing  hung  on  the  rails  of  the  porches,  fresh-washed 
by  hand  that  Sunday  morning,  already  as  it  dried  be- 
coming dusky,  grimed  again.  Here  and  there  a  plant, 
poor  starveling  thing,  showed  half-apologetically  atop 
some  window-ledge,  fighting  to  live  in  its  small  tin 
can  on  which  the  packer's  label  still  persisted.  Other 
cans  littered  house-backs  and  fronts,  and  an  uncertain- 
looking  dog  or  gaunt-framed  cat  squirmed  through  the 
fence  of  broken,  rotting  boards  that  sometimes  marked 
a  line  from  one  man's  hovel  to  another. 

In  one  den  they  ate  late,  wolfing  their  food  and 
enjoying  it  hugely.  Queer-looking,  unkempt  heads 
were  stuck  from  upper  windows  and  half-clad,  rag- 
bag children  were  at  play  among  the  stones  and  cans. 
Johnson  heard  a  dismal-looking  harridan  say  to  a  man 
more  at  his  ease  upon  her  steps,  "I  do  despise  to  do  this 
work  a-Sunday"  as  she  faithfully  and  thoroughly  dis- 
charged a  leaking  hose  upon  a  little  group  of  innocent 
children  numbering  some  boys  from  eight  to  twelve, 
also  a  pair  of  girls.  One  escaped,  but  he  was  "drug" 
back  kicking  by  his  father.  None  bothered  as  to 
covering,  but  the  common  parent  sheeted  all  with  water, 
once  at  least.  Johnson  thought  back  to  the  Fork  — 
the  even  simpler  sanitation  of  the  "jacks."  They  had 
no  hose  up  there.  Soap  and  hot  water  indeed  were 
worse,  far  worse,  than  little  soap  and  some  cold  water; 
just  look  at  the  poor,  and  the  rich. 

There  was  his  own  father,  come  Saturday  night, 
patiently  plodding  from  home  to  mill,  there  to  run 
steam  into  pails  of  cold  water,  carrying  back  his 
brimming,  vapory  load  before  it  had  a  chance  to  chill. 
There  had  been  five  in  his  family,  and  he  had  made 


150  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

his  pilgrimage  that  many  things.  For  the  Johnsons 
were  high-up  among  the  Romans. 

Was  that  life,  or  this?  Labor  had  always  been  his 
heritage,  his  "side-kick."  Sometimes  in  going  to  Fork 
from  sdiool  he  was  wearied  of  one  and  despising 
the  other.  Such  partnerships  had  little  glamour,  cer- 
tainly. They  were  drab  —  monotonous  —  repellent  — 
dirty.  Yes  this  was  modern  life,  if  stripped.  He  had 
had  a  long  journey  with  Labor;  where  would  this 
fellow  take  him? 

He  turned  at  the  bank  of  the  river,  where  the  road 
skirts  the  stream  for  a  bit  before  it  swerves  abruptly 
to  go  in  a  long,  wood-sided  bridge.  He  went  to  the 
right  and  up  a  lane,  a  sort  of  offshoot  of  the  street 
that  he  had  followed  down.  This  alley,  he  knew,  was 
"Shakespeare  Street."  He  climbed  the  rutty,  rain- 
scarred  hill,  by  other  homes  and  always  of  the  poor. 
Ten  o'clock  struck  from  the  Court  House.  He  walked 
a  little  faster. 

On  the  left  he  passed  a  shack,  meaner  even  that  the 
rest.  A  woman  sat  inside  who  looked  up  at  his  step 
and  showed  a  pair  of  dulling  eyes.  She  stitched  upon 
an  old,  flowered-cambric  gown.  The  road  was  narrow, 
and  Andy  quite  close,  for  she  was  sitting  near  her  open 
door.  He  noticed  she  was  putting  in  a  patch,  and  also 
that  there  had  been  patches  earlier,  as  there  would 
doubtless  after.  This  one  did  not  match,  but  neither 
did  the  thread.    Perhaps  her  eyes  saw  no  difference. 

She  was  at  least  very  neat,  the  kind  of  futile  neat- 
ness that  sets  some  hearts  to  aching.  A  little  spool  of 
thread  slipped  from  her  lap  and  rolled  his  way  as  he 
went  by.  He  stooped  for  it  and  gave  it  back.  Her 
face  looked  sweet,  a  sort  of  young-old,  ripened  sweet- 
ness, when  she  took  it,  and  she  thanked  him  in  a  thin 
but  pleasant  voice.    His  eyes  appraised  the  contents 


REFINEMENT  161 

of  the  room,  and  there  was  little,  that  little  worn  and 
old.  He  passed  by.  If  he  felt  the  cheer  that  greater 
misfortunes  bring  to  ourselves,  his  heart  was  tired. 
He  had  lived  so  much. 

He  hurried  along,  not  stopping  again  till  he  came  to 
lower  State  Street.  People  were  quitting  their  homes, 
well-breakfasted,  fat-bellied,  thankful.  A  Sabbath 
peace  hung  over  them.  It  was  the  day  of  the  Lord,  and 
it  was  summer,  fine  —  warm  —  glorious,  and  they  were 
going  to  give  praise  to  Him  for  all  they  had,  and  hoped 
to  have  and  wished  for.  The  early  bells  had  rung, 
the  lesser  laity  had  even  gone.  Now  chimes  in  every 
church  were  tolled,  for  the  hour  was  nearing  the  half, 
and  from  the  homes  of  Carpenter  and  Gates  and  Turner 
came  well-upholstered  folk,  some  to  step  out  them- 
selves, but  more  to  go  by  motor  to  their  worship,  a 
square  or  so  away. 

Johnson  joined  the  crowds  along  the  walks  and  since 
he  had  no  special  Sunday  preferences  turned  in  with 
many  others  at  the  broadly  gaping  door  of  First 
Church.  The  ushers  were  busy  with  friends  who  rented 
pews  and  he  was  free  to  choose  his  seat.  A  beldame 
glared,  but  he  sat  down.  He  watched  the  parade  as  it 
entered  and  descried  a  few  he  knew,  though  chiefly 
"in  a  business  way."  The  Bodeheavers  ambled  to 
their  customary  place  well  forward.  Then  there  were 
the  Filchers,  as  also  Mr.  Busby,  with  whom  he  now 
felt  some  acquaintance.  The  Hunters  soon  marched 
in  and  others  followed.  There  were  the  Gates.  He 
walked  with  righteous  strides.  Someone  whom  he  felt 
was  Mrs.  Gates  came  next  in  their  procession,  which  he 
observed  distinctly  from  beside  a  pillar  of  the  choir- 
loft.  At  least  she  walked  as  though  she  might  be 
Mrs.  Gates.  He  had  never  known  her  at  the  Fork,  but 
he  had  known  of  her  for  years.    And  then  there  came  a 


152  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

strange  young  woman,  rather  girl,  and  mincing  just 
beside  her  Crampton  Moore,  room-mate. 

This  was  interesting,  indeed;  and  so  was  she!  She 
did  not  look  as  he  had  always  heard  and  thought  of 
Holden  Gates.  Yet  that  was  Barbara,  of  whom  his 
chum  had  rambled  much  in  Free  Academy  days.  He 
had  also  written,  Andy  recollected,  and  had  got  with 
joy  occasional  oblong  envelopes  addressed  in  an  agree- 
able though  round  and  unformed  hand.  She  was 
attractive  this  morning,  a  worthy  product  of  the  Bos- 
ton school.  Yes,  more  than  that,  he  thought,  re- 
flecting on  the  high- voiced,  robust  dames  of  Slab  Fork, 
large  of  feet,  knobbily  red  of  hand,  unkempt  of  hair 
and  dress,  yet  no  doubt  reasonable.  The  boys  he  knew 
back  there  had  grown  up,  married,  and  apparently 
lived  satisfactorily  with  the  only  kind  they  knew. 

This  other  girl  —  he  could  see  just  the  ends  of  two 
rose-colored  ribbons  that  depended  from  a  small,  light- 
straw  poke  bonnet  that  appeared  by  Crampton's  head. 
When  standing  for  hymns  he  glimpsed  a  little  more, 
a  fair,  round  neck  below  the  edges  of  the  hat.  He 
almost  overlooked  the  singing  that  strangers  often 
spoke  of,  when  at  home.  And  when  the  Reverend 
Sykes  had  monotoned  through  many  of  the  greater 
sins,  and  kept  his  congregation  very  dry  of  throat  and 
moist,  Andrew  foretasted  the  close. 

When  it  was  over  he  spoke  to  Crampton,  and  Cramp- 
ton  very  kindly  introduced  them.  And  though  a  prod- 
uct of  the  Fork,  she  greeted  him  most  sweetly,  since 
her  mother  was  not  there  to  warn  her,  having  gone 
ahead.  The  girl's  face,  and  the  girl,  now  equalled  if 
indeed  they  did  not  much  eclipse  the  ends  of  the  small 
poke  bonnet  and  the  throat  that  had  shown  beneath. 
Her  casual  greeting  as  she  and  Crampton  spoke  and 
went  along  left  him  well-nigh  as  dumb  and  parched  as 


REFINEMENT  153 

Mr.  Sykes.    He  knew  he  had  been  a  dub.    He  had 
heard  of  such  girls. 

He  crossed  to  Dave's  to  eat.  Dave  greeted  him  ebul- 
liently, and  B.  Fred  paused  to  pass  the  time  of  day, 
per  custom.  It  was  high  meal-time,  and  the  scent  of 
good  cabbage  was  rife  in  the  house.  Andrew  entered 
the  dining-room,  and  Fred  went  toward  the  publican's 
desk  to  fill  his  fountain  pen. 


XXIII 

"Got  any  more  potatoes,  Ma?" 

"Yes,  George,  pass  up  your  plate,  there's  a  little 
left." 

"Don't  give  me  all,  Mai  I  ain't  so  very  hungry, 
after  all,"  said  the  boy,  turning  on  her  a  pair  of  eyes 
that  testified  much  longing  nevertheless. 

"Oh,  I've  had  plenty,  son  —  you  take  the  rest.  And 
here's  a  little  piece  of  meat  to  go  along." 

"All  right.  Ma,  if  you're  sure,"  taking  time  to 
answer  before  he  set  to  work. 

George  had  grown.  He  was  manlier,  outwardly  al- 
tered from  the  little  lad  that  once  had  clung  to  an 
elder  brother's  hand  and  whimpered  from  the  cold. 

He  was  larger  and  Mrs.  Johnson  older,  far,  than 
even  one  year  before.  The  boy's  face  was  thin,  unusual. 
It  looked  weary.  The  mother's  was  a  little  more  so. 
Her  hair  was  greyed. 

"I  was  goin'  to  get  some  things  up  to  the  store  to- 
day, son,  but  then  I  thought  I'd  try  and  hang  on  till 
the  end  of  the  week." 

'Sure,  we  can  wait,  Ma.  I've  got  ten  or  eleven  dollars 
coming  then,  and  we'll  be  right,  all  right.     Course, 


154  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

there's  a  few  things  they'll  take  out  this  month,  a 
dollar  and  a  half  for  Doc,  and  the  insurance,  and  then 
I  guess  there  was  a  little  mite  left  over  from  the  meat 
bill  at  the  Store  last  month.  We  ought  to  make  out 
somehow.  I  know  we  can,  don't  you?"  His  voice  at 
the  last  rang  a  challenge.    His  mother  heard  it. 

"Yes,  Georgie,  I  know  we  will,  you  and  me.  That 
ain't  what's  worryin'  me  most,  I'm  thinkin'  of  our  boy 
down  there  to  Mapleton.  He  ain't  havin'  it  easy,  by  a 
long  ways,  though  we  don't  ever  hear  tell.  Andy  is  a 
man,  and  he  always  was,  George. 

"Do  you  remember,  son,  the  time  you  was  both  in 
the  box  factory  and  he  was  workin'  then,  though  he 
wasn't  ten,  and  when  you  come  along  one  day  you  put 
out  your  finger  to  feel  of  the  cut-off  saw  and  he  reached 
out,  quick-like,  and  grabbed  your  hand  away?  And 
then  he  sent  you  home,  and  when  he  come  along  that 
night  we  saw  as  how  his  hand  was  kind  of  tore  up 
'round  the  wrist.  He  wouldn't  let  on  how  he  got  it. 
Remember?" 

"I  should  say,"  said  the  boy,  as  his  eyes  filled. 
"Seems  lonely  in  there  now,  with  Andy  gone.  I  get 
tired,  too,  feedin'  in  strips  all  day  long,  never  any 
change,  first  one  strip,  then  another  to  follow  and  one 
after  that,  and  sometimes  I  think  like  I  won't  ever  get 
to  the  last.  Sometimes  at  night  I'm  feeding  in  strips  in 
my  sleep,  and  wake  up.    It  plagues  me  a  lot." 

"I  know  it,  and  I'm  sorry.  I  wish  I  could  do  it  for 
you.  I  recollect  how  Andy'd  get  home  from  the  mill 
at  night,  and  set  right  down  here,  'side  the  fire,  tellin' 
you  stories  about  what-all  he  did  down  there  that 
day.  He'd  try  to  make  it  gay-like,  and  say,  'Oh,  it 
ain't  hard.  I  don't  mind  it,  much,'  and  even  while  he 
was  a-tellin'  you  he'd  fall  asleep. 

"How  I  wish  you  didn't  have  to  work  and  work  like 


REFINEMENT  165 

that.  Seems  like  I  ain't  much  good,  or  else  you 
wouldn't  have  to.  Your  father  used  to  tell  me,  that 
was  long  before  we  married,  how  he  could  do  most 
anything,  with  me.  And  then  things  dragged  along, 
year's  end  to  the  next,  one  job  after  another,  till  one 
year,  'twas  in  the  spring,  we  landed  here."  Her  voice 
broke.    "We  couldn't  ever  get  away." 

A  knock  at  the  shaky  pine  door  and  George  cried 
out,  "Who's  there,  you,  Jimmy?" 

"Sure,  George,  come  ahead  out.  Ain't  you  goin'  to 
the  Lodge  tonight?" 

George  got  to  his  feet.  The  table  was  empty,  and  he 
had  finished.  His  mother's  eyes  were  moist,  he 
stopped.  "Guess  I  won't  go,  Mother.  What's  the  use? 
'Twon't  matter  if  I  miss,  this  once." 

"No,  you  go,  too.  I'm  all  right  now.  Come  in, 
Jimmy,"  she  called,  going  to  unlatch  the  door. 

Jimmy  came  in.  He  was  typical.  Down  near  his 
nose  he  had  a  derby  hat  and  this  he  tardily  removed 
as  he  slouched  near  their  kerosene  lamp.  Long  rope- 
like hair  fell  over  his  face  and  a  red,  shaved  neck  rose 
from  the  low-collared  flannel  shirt.  His  cotton  hose 
were  red  where  they  appeared  between  his  shoe-tops 
and  his  pants,  which  bagged. 

George  was  ready,  Jimmy  shifted  to  both  feet,  and 
they  started.  The  door  slammed  after,  and  their  heavy- 
nailed  shoes  sang  out  on  the  pine  boards  before  they 
reached  the  sawdust  road.  Mrs.  Johnson  started  stack- 
ing-up.  She  did  not  carry  things  to  any  kitchen.  They 
were  already  there. 

It  was  a  warm,  fine  evening  after  a  muggy  day  and 
though  stars  showed  above  the  blackness  of  the  stacks 
and  mill,  there  was  a  hint  of  rain,  and  thunder,  in  the 
air.  The  ground  and  all  the  brush  around  were  dry, 
so  that  the  Company  kept  extra  watch  about  the  yards 


156  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

at  night.  At  times  like  this  a  little  spark,  a  breath  of 
air  —  and  that  was  all.  Their  lumber,  though,  was 
fairly  well  protected  for  it  cost  much. 

As  George  and  Jimmy  passed  they  met  with  others. 

"Hi,  Bill!     Fine  night  tonight.    How's  the  boy?" 

"Feeling  good,  eh?" 

"There's  Jack!  oh,  boy!  Old  woman  let  you  off, 
eh?" 

"How's  everything  in  your  corner  of  the  yard?" 

"Fine  night,  ain't  it?" 

"Looks  a  lot  like  rain,"  and  they  were  at  the  slab 
yard,  where  individuals  joined  groups,  groups  merged, 
and  all  converged  to  the  Hall  of  Eureka. 

Most  of  the  older  members  had  arrived,  and  many 
younger.  There  was  no  limit  as  to  age.  If  boy  did 
man's  work,  he  was  one.  Old  Rogers,  George  noticed, 
sat  in  a  corner,  hat  tipped  across  his  face.  He  was  by 
no  means  asleep,  as  he  had  only  been  drinking. 

Dispensing  with  opening  forms  and  ceremonies,  the 
meeting  promised  more  than  usual. 

The  mill  had  always  worked  twelve  hours.  The 
woods  was  independent.  "It"  only  worked  from  "sun  to 
sun."  In  the  winter  that  averaged  ten.  In  summer 
it  wasn't  "straight- time."  When  it  was  it  meant  four- 
teen, but  that  wasn't  much;  "chuck"  was  good  in  the 
Old  Man's  camps. 

Latterly  the  Fork  had  heard  of  factories  down  in 
other  towns,  like  Mapleton,  where  women,  men,  and 
children  had  now  but  ten  hours,  straight.  In  one, 
some  said,  it  had  been  cut  to  nine.  The  Fork  rumbled. 
Men  worked  their  twelve  hours  straight  'way  back  be- 
fore the  Fork  had  heard  of  Gates,  and  later  on  he 
"didn't  want  to  get  away  from  any  local  custom." 
Gates  had  cares  of  his  own. 

They'd  talked  about  it,  pro  and  con,  and  off  and 


REFINEMENT  157 

on,  until  the  boys  had  thought  they'd  have  a  try  and  see 
what  they  could  do.  They  got  in  touch  with  Witzke, 
who  had  moved  to  Mapleton  long  since  for  richer  fields 
and  troubles  green.  He  returned  to  them  that  morning, 
with  another. 

At  that  time  there  was  no  such  thing  as  unions  in 
the  woods:  men  came  and  went,  worked  as  they  should, 
took  what  they  got  by  way  of  pay,  drank  daily  and 
got  drunk  monthly,  had  two  full  holidays  a  year,  and 
didn't  get  paid  for  either.  They  worked  till  they  were 
sick  from  work  or  cold;  then  stayed  in  bed  (they  had 
a  doctor's  fee  deducted  an3rway.)  They  left  their 
families  memories,  or  debts;  and  soon  were  followed 
by  another,  quite  like  the  perpetual  bull  chain  that 
stuffed  the  stomach  of  the  mill  with  logs.  One  day 
a  man  got  up  in  meeting  —  it  was  early  in  Eureka's  his- 
tory—  and  said  it  wasn't  right.  Maybe  that  was 
"Cosmo"  Thorn.  Well,  come  to  think  of  it,  "It  ain't. 
Why  not  do  something?"    But  what  to  do? 

Witzke's  partner  brought  the  answer.  Cosmo 
introduced  him  as  an  "organizer."  His  name  doesn't 
matter.  The  man  rose.  He  was  not  ill-looking,  stoutly 
built,  neatly  dressed,  more  of  a  thinker  than  worker. 
His  eyes  were  deep-placed,  shrewd,  his  mouth  was 
clean  and  strong.  George  looked  at  him  and  liked 
him.    His  voice  was  very  pleasant. 

"Friends  and  brothers,  let's  get  down  to  business. 
What  do  we  want?  What  does  Labor  want?  Labor 
with  a  big  "L,"  for  it  is  large,  the  Labor  that  lives  and 
breathes  and  works  and  drives  the  wheels  of  nations 
and  in  turn  gets  driven.  I  asked  a  big  man  this  not 
long  ago.  He  was  a  laborer  once,  like  all  of  us.  But 
he  had  an  idea.  He  worked  hard  and  never  let  go  of 
that  idea. 

"What  was  his  idea,  you  say?    Well,  this  idea  was 


158  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

that  a  thousand  men  working  together  can  get  farther 
and  get  more  for  those  thousand  when  they  keep  to- 
gether than  when  they  keep  apart.  So  he  collected  a 
few  of  those  fellows  who  lived  and  worked  with  him. 
They  talked  it  over.  They  hadn't  asked  anything  and 
they  wouldn't  ask  anything  but  their  rights.  While 
they  were  talking  someone  squealed  to  a  boss. 

"He  was  an  ordinary  boss,  so  he  didn't  bother  to 
ask  questions  or  look  farther  than  just  that.  Our 
man  got  fired.  But  he  kept  on  thinking,  and  he 
worked.  You  don't  know  how  he  worked!  Today 
he  heads  the  union  labor  of  this  State.  Up  here  you 
may  not  hear  of  him,  but  he's  in  every  town  down  there 
below,  and  mothers  tell  their  sons  about  him,  and 
what  their  fathers  did  with  him  and  through  his  aid. 

"The  other  day  I  thought  I'd  ask  him  just  what 
Labor  wants.  And  he  said,  'I'll  tell  you,  and  I'll  tell 
you  pretty  quick.  "What  does  Labor  want?"  It 
wants  the  earth  and  the  fullness  thereof.  There  is 
nothing  too  precious;  there  is  nothing  too  beautiful, 
too  lofty,  too  ennobling,  unless  it  is  within  the  scope 
and  comprehension  of  Labor's  wants  and  Labor's  as- 
pirations. It  wants,  we  want,  more  schoolhouses  and 
less  jails;  more  books  and  less  sweat-shops;  more 
learning  and  less  vice;  more  justice  and  less  spite; 
more,  in  fact,  of  all  the  opportunities  to  cultivate  men's 
better  natures,  to  make  manhood  more  noble,  woman- 
hood more  beautiful,  and  childhood  more  happy  and 
bright.    WTiat  Labor  wants  is  more,  more,  more!' 

"My  friends,  what  have  you  got?  What  would  you 
have?  I  can  see  you  would  have  much  But  if  you 
would  gain  much,  so  must  you  do  much.  Are  you 
ready  to  make  your  trial,  are  you  willing  to  test  our 
strength?  The  time  has  never  been  so  fair.  We 
believe  that  union  —  of  hand,  of  heart,  of  mind,  of 


REFINEMENT  159 

work  —  is  the  religion  of  humanity.  It  was  conceived 
in  hope,  begotten  in  charity  and  born  of  honor.  It 
was  nourished  in  the  milk  of  strength;  swathed  in  the 
robes  of  justice;  rocked  in  the  cradle  of  equality; 
lighted  and  warmed  by  the  eternal  torch  of  Liberty. 
It  is  the  creed  of  the  just  mind,  the  prayer  of  the  gener- 
ous heart,  the  commandment  of  the  kindly  soul.  It  is 
love  and  love  is  God.    It  is  fulfilling  of  his  Law." 

Great  shouts  of  "Yes!  Yes!  We  are  ready!  Give 
us  the  word!"  reached  up  to  the  speaker. 

In  due  time  the  meeting  adjourned.  Men  had  taken 
on  a  new  look  and  the  Lodge  was  gone,  forever.  In  its 
place  was  "United  Workers  of  the  Woods  and  Mill, 
Eureka  No.  i."  They  framed  a  greeting  to  Holden 
Gates.  It  was  very  polite;  Thorn  saw  to  that.  It 
was  keenly  insistent;  Witzke  did  that.  It  asked  a 
working-day  just  ten  hours  long;  it  did  not  mention 
change  of  pay.  They  named  a  messenger  and  started 
it  away.  As  their  man  left  the  hall  the  sky  was  very 
dark.  But  a  jagged  crest  of  lightning,  sharp  and  red, 
cut  rapidly  across  the  sky  and  left  a  sullen  after-clap 
of  thunder. 

A  storm  was  brewing. 

XXIV 

A  LITTLE  group  of  men  had  gathered  in  a  back 
room  of  the  offices  of  Gates  &  Vogel,  attorneys  at  the 
Law.  They  sat  in  an  atmosphere  politico-legal.  It  was 
fresh  without,  so  there  was  little  air  within,  with  many 
reeking  stubs  and  live  cigars.  One  man  sat  with  his 
feet  on  a  desk,  another  had  his  black  slouch  hat  far 
back  upon  his  head  while  a  long,  dead-brown  cigar 
strained  but  did  not  stop  his  speech. 

"Gates,  I  think  you're  going  it  all  wrong,"  old 


160  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

Colonel  Hunter  interrupted.  He  was  the  single  one 
among  them  who  would  or  could  have  said  it.  "If  you 
can't  get  at  their  viewpoint  and  cannot  see  your  way 
clear  to  giving  in  an  inch  don't,  don't  at  all  events  give 
them  so  flat-footed  a  refusal." 

"Well,  but,  but,  d  —  damn  the  fellows,  anyway. 
What  do  they  mean  by  coming  at  me  like  this?  I'll 
show  them,  I'll  knock  their  confounded  tom-foolishness 
and  their  'Union'  and  .  .  ." 

"Easy,  easy,  Holden,"  soothed  old  Tom  Sloane,  who 
sat  beside  him.  "Tell  me,  in  so  many  words,  just  what 
they  want." 

"I  can  tell  you,  quick  enough.  I'd  hardly  got  down 
to  the  offices  this  morning  when  one  of  their  chaps  — 
Bill  Boddfish,  too,  a  fellow  I've  hired  up  there,  and  his 
father,  for  years  —  came  in  and  said,  'Here's  some- 
thing from  the  boys,  Mr.  Gates.'  'Well,  what  is  it, 
Bill?'  I  said.  'Can't  tell  ye,'  he  Ued,  'they  just  said  as 
how  I  was  to  hand  it  in,  so  here  she  is.' 

"So  I  took  it  and  opened  it,  plain  envelope 
and  dirty  paper,  and  there  inside,  big  as  life  and  as 
presumptuous,  damn  it  .  .  .  Here,  I  guess  I've  got 
it  with  me." 

"Excuse  me.  Gates,"  said  the  Colonel,  "but  how  did 
you  address  the  bearer  of  this,  ah,  message  after  you 
had  received  it?" 

"Oh,  I  took  it  and  after  I'd  read  it  maybe  half-way 
through  I  got  sort  of  hot  and  started  to  say  something, 
but  this  fellow  just  remarked,  cool  as  you  please,  'See 
it  all  the  way  through,  please,  Mr.  Gates,'  and  without 
meaning  to  do  as  he  said  I  expect  I  did.  Then  I  told 
him  to  get  out!  And  take  that  for  an  answer,  and  if 
he  came  down  on  another  errand  he  needn't  go  back 
to  work  for  me.  He  had  a  reply  to  that,  too,  just  as 
if  somebody  had  put  him  up  to  it:  'I  wouldn't  say  "No" 


REFINEMENT  161 

right  off,  Mr.  Gates.  Better  think  it  over  good.  Week 
or  so'U  be  time  enough.'  Confound  his  damnable 
impudence." 

"Give  us  your  letter,  Holden,"  cut  in  one  whose 
name  was  Carpenter  and  who  also  kept  more  than  a 
passing  interest  in  the  Fork.    "Go  ahead,  let's  hear  it." 

"This  is  it,  then,  as  briefly  as  you  want,  *We,  the 
undersigned  representatives  of  the  mill  and  woods 
workers  of  Slab  Fork,  of  the  company  known  as  the 
Holden  Gates  Lumber  Co.,  being  herein  assembled 
and  organized  as  "United  Workers  of  the  Woods  and 
Mill,  Eureka  No.  i,  Branch  of  the  Confederated  » 
Board  of  Labor,"  do  hereby  respectfully  but  earnestly 
ask  consideration  of  the  following,  to  wit:  That  the 
working-day  at  present  obtaining  at  the  Fork  be 
shortened  from  twelve  hours  to  ten,  pay  to  be  kept  the 
same,  believing  in  light  of  present  conditions  that  more 
may  be  done  in  the  shorter  day  and  that  any  longer 
day  should  not  with  justice  be  continued  now.  Signed 
by .' 

"And  then,  and  then!  comes  the  worst  impertinence 
of  all,  names  of  men  I've  had  with  me  for  years,  and 

even  employed  before  by ,  er,  that  I've  had  with 

me  for  years.  Spent  a  little  fortune  on  'em  —  Ander- 
son, Hanson,  and  that  fool  Thorn,  that  old  fellow 
Rogers  —  Rogers!  of  all,  and  Joe  Mickeluski,  why  he 
could  hardly  sign  his  name,  and  yet  there  you  have  it 
with  the  rest,  tailing  a  typewritten  proposition  and 
all.    I  tell  you,  it  gets  right  under  my  skin." 

The  room  was  quiet.  "I  can't  understand  who 
started  it,  anjrway.  I  haven't  heard  any  of  this  before, 
didn't  dream  they'd  even  thought  about  it.  Why, 
they've  worked  twelve  hours  for  twenty  years  and  more 
before  that.  What's  getting  into  things,  I'd  like  to 
know?" 


162  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

"Just  this,  Gates,"  said  the  Colonel,  nicely  dusting 
his  cigar  with  a  long  forefinger,  and  resting  the  fingers 
of  the  other  hand  upon  his  short,  white  beard. 

"Just  this:  no  man,  no  one  man  is  behind  it,  and  no 
new  thing,  no  one  thing,  is  the  cause  of  it.  Time  in 
its  roll  around  upsets  the  balance  of  many  of  our  old 
and  habit-honored  theories  and  practices.  Men  who 
worked  yesterday  think  today,  and  you  have  just  been 
sent  a  sign.  Work,  they  come  to  reason,  may  be  the 
way  to  livelihood  which  every  man  must  have,  but  it 
should  not  and  shall  no  longer  be  the  sole  accompani- 
ment of  living.  It  is  a  part  of  life,  undoubtedly,  but 
they  are  growing  to  perceive  it  as  only  a  part  and  a 
means  to  a  larger  life,  rather  than  its  end,  its  be- 
ginning, and  the  summa  summarum  of  it  all.  Their 
work  is  their  passport  to  living.  They  deserve  it,  they 
must  have  it!  but  more  of  its  rewards  must  fill  their 
life.  They  have  not  even  homes,  they  say,  though 
that  is  as  much  to  them  as  it  is  to  you  —  and  me,"  he 
added,  looking  perhaps  to  his  square  old  manse  at  the 
head  of  the  tree-lined  drive. 

"In  fact,  Gates,  it  may  be  more.  Home  roofs  that 
first  democracy,  the  family.  And  home  is  all  they  have. 
Yet  even  when  they  have  one,  what  can  they  do,  they 
say,  but  eat  and  sleep  in  it,  and  neither  well?  They 
wake  and  go  to  work,  and  when  they  are  at  home  the 
time  has  only  come  for  them  to  think  of  work  again  and 
to  prepare  for  it.  They  cannot  even  hold  themselves 
in  cleanliness  and  health  and  decency. 

"Do  not  take  umbrage,  Gates.  I  only  share  my 
observations.  I  have  lived  a  long  time,  but  recollec- 
tions of  the  past  have  by  no  means  obscured  the  present 
and  future.  No,  I  think  it  is  clearer,  and  I  begin  to 
see,  as  you,  Gates,  will  see,  as  everyone  must  see,  which 
way  the  wind  is  veering.    Observations  are  not  always 


REFINEMENT  163 

views,  but  those  I  offer  you  are  facts.    You  will  do 
well  to  pay  attention." 

"To  Hell  with  labor,  then,"  said  Gates,  "if  they 
think  they've  got  to  have  these  things  to  get  along.  Are 
they  better  than  their  fathers.  Colonel?" 

"Not  better,  but  wiser.  They  would  be  better.  You 
cannot  grow  a  peasantry  in  an  enlightened  land.  The 
European  immigrant  today,  sir,  is  our  American  citi- 
zen tomorrow  —  or  should  be.  He  has  used  his  oppor- 
tunity. We  should  see  ours,"  —  his  voice  was  strong, 
and  his  words  came  clear  —  "and  whether  or  not  we 
should,  then  time  will  show  we  must.  And  it  will 
indicate  as  well  that  long  delays,  and  disregarding  signs, 
will  do  no  good.  It  is  time  in  my  judgement  that  Busi- 
ness laid  both  ears  to  the  ground. 

"Tell  me,  Sloane,  and  you.  Turner,  and  Gage,  can 
you  see  what  I  mean,  do  you  agree  with  me?" 

Y-e-s,  to  some  degree  they  could.  Gates  remained 
skeptical  throughout.  He  saw  those  fellows  wanted 
just  as  much  for  ten  hours  as  for  twelve,  and  as  for 
their  performing  just  as  much  or  more  —  Pshaw! 
That  was  impossibility.  What  they  were  thinking  had 
little  to  do  with  their  work;  so  far  as  he  was  con- 
cerned, he  didn't  care  whether  they  thought  or  not, 
probably  do  better  if  they  didn't.  How  long  they 
worked,  there  was  the  thing  that  counted.  In  his  own 
long-worn  ideals  efficiency  was  of  machines,  and  jobs, 
and  hours ;  nothing  human  about  it.  Men  were  shuttles 
and  pawns.  You  took  them,  moved  them;  they  stayed 
put,  and  they  obeyed.  Mind  and  spirit  were  not  of  the 
working-body.  He  couldn't  sense  it.  His  heart  was 
hard  but  his  head  was  harder.  Why  should  he  meet 
with  labor? 

The  meeting  adjourned.  It  had  been  a  hurried 
get-together  of  directors,  though  Gates  of  course  was 


164  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

more  concerned  than  any  other.  The  Colonel  saw  that 
his  words  had  been  mildly  effective,  but  he  did  not  press 
an  advantage.  Gates  was  digesting.  All  urged  modera- 
tion on  Gates,  as  president.  Perhaps  eleven  hours 
would  do  as  well  as  ten.  It  was  only  a  few  minutes' 
difference.  He  could  pare  the  fruit  as  thin  as  it  would 
stand.  At  that,  if  they  didn't  like  it,  what  could 
they  do,  he  wondered?  He  didn't  take  stock  in  their 
"Union."  Sometimes  it  might  work  in  cities,  but  it  was 
new  in  his  woods  and  mills.    Of  course  it  would  fail. 

Leaving,  they  all  passed  Andrew.  He  sat  beside 
the  open  door  but  had  not  dared  to  leave  his  work. 
He  tried  to  concentrate,  and  saw  instead  the  people 
of  the  Fork:  so  many  parts  of  old  and  overwrought 
machines.  He  had  not  yet  forgotten  his  own.  Inde- 
pendently and  quite  unknown  to  him,  it  was  not  meant 
he  should. 

He  need  not  have  worried  as  to  what  effect  his 
being  there  might  have,  since  no  one  noticed  him  save 
Colonel  Hunter,  who  had  met  him  once,  and  bowed  and 
smiled  at  Johnson  now  as  though  the  latter  were  a 
gentleman  of  his  acquaintance.  Gates  stepped  to  the 
door  as  the  rest  went  out. 

Barbara  just  then  passed  and  seeing  her  father, 
stopped.  Another  joined  them.  He  was  hunchbacked 
and  old,  though  his  dark  grey  eye  still  held  a  fleck  of 
fire  and  boldness  when  he  looked  your  way.  The  en- 
semble did  not  impress  one  comfortably.  He  looked 
dirty,  and  mean,  hideous,  and  soured  on  men,  and 
Andrew  knew  that  it  was  Maugan  Grubbs.  Grubbs 
spoke  to  Gates.  Without  knowing,  Johnson  shuddered 
to  see  Quasimodo  remove  his  soiled  felt  hat  and  bow 
profoundly  to  the  sweet,  pure-looking  girl. 

She  did  not  seem  too  pleasantly  impressed,  but  her 
father  smiled  as  if  he  wished  it  and  she  acknowledged 


REFINEMENT  165 

Grubbs'  attention.  All  were  now  some  steps  away, 
but  Andrew  judged  she  begged  her  father  to  ex- 
cuse her.  She  then  went  on  and  past  the  square 
toward  home.  Andrew  saw  her  until  she  disappeared 
beyond  the  trees,  and  when  his  eyes  came  back  he 
found  the  men  had  gone. 

Having  had  supper,  Andy  on  returning  to  his  room 
experienced  restlessness,  though  not  all  of  this  uneasy 
feeling  could  probably  be  laid  at  David's  door  to- 
night. From  the  conversation  of  the  afternoon  and 
all  the  long,  pent-up  emotions  left  too  responsive  in 
the  boy,  there  gnawed  a  sense  of  unfitness,  an  inability 
to  understand  these  men  and  probe  their  minds,  an 
utter  helplessness  to  aid  those  others  back  at  home  who 
stood  in  great  need,  assuredly.  Perhaps  the  view  that 
labor  took  shot  past  the  mark,  extravagant,  extreme. 

Why  should  it  not?  Had  any  one,  unasked,  come  in 
the  past  to  help  them  find  tiie  middle  road?  The 
present  had  at  last  grown  cramped,  unspeakable.  From 
the  height  of  its  Temple  the  face  of  age-old  privilege 
leered  down. 

Below-stairs  another  struggle  of  the  age  and  hour 
was  being  worried  out.  Busby,  chief  clerk,  was  work- 
ing over-time.  He  had  come  in  an  hour  or  so  ago. 
One  told  by  the  way  the  door  slammed.  He  banged 
away  in  his  swivel  chair  for  a  little  and  then  had  been 
forgotten  by  the  boy.  A  voice  reached  in  an  open 
window, 

"Hi!  Busby,  workin'?" 

"Yes,  yes,  can't  you  see  I  am?"  came  genially. 

Lemuel  spoke  as  though  he  meant  it,  and  some  who 
knew  him  said  he  always  did.  He  boasted  he  "hadn't 
took  a  vacation  in  more'n  twenty  years";  his  wife 
encouraged  him  to  have  one. 

"Well,  you  won't  be  long,  will  ye?"  in  a  loud  and 


166  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

undiscouraged  voice.  "If  ye  won't,  I  don't  mind 
waitin',  and  we  can  go  'long  to  the  Postal  Office  to- 
gether." The  speaker  was  evidently  Clem  Hodges,  an 
old  and  patient  friend  of  Busby.  Clem  was  not  always 
an  opportunist,  being  "alius  ready  to  swap  the  time  o' 
day." 

No  answer.  Busby's  pen  was  scratching.  Andrew 
could  almost  see  his  puckery  face,  wondering  whether 
that  darned  old  client,  the  widow  Hicks,  had  paid  up 
what  she  owed  and  as  to  how  the  Deacon  Swilletts 
matter  stood. 

Clem  continued.  "  'Tain't  late  yet.  Goin'  to  the 
Chautauqua,  ain't  ye?" 

A  quick,  sharp  gnmt.  "No,  I  ain't  goin',  if  you  want 
to  know,  Clem  Hodges.  It's  too  darn  pergressive  for 
me." 

Silence.    Clem  passed  on. 

Andy  decided  to  go  down.  Busby  appeared  not  to 
notice  him.  He  was  plunged  in  his  desk,  head-first.  A 
rather  mussy  collar  showed  above  a  hunched-up  back, 
and  he  was  toiling  furiously.  His  desk,  from  casters  to 
top,  was  littered  in  awful,  busy  disarray;  its  center 
was  indescribable.  He  stated  pridefuUy  that  he  could 
put  his  hand  on  anything  inside  in  fifteen  seconds,  in 
the  which  there  was  no  rival.  Papers  in  front,  heaped 
up  above  him,  sticking  from  pigeon  holes,  dropped  on 
the  floor  —  that  was  "Busy"  Busby.  There  he  was 
and  there  he  had  been  for  a  score  of  years,  a  little 
rumpled  sparrow  of  a  man.  He  seemed  to  be  among 
them,  his  assistants  said,  fuming,  fretting,  grumbling, 
grunting,  even  when  away.  The  office-girls  both  said 
no  one  had  ever  loved  him  and  certainly  he  had  the 
look  of  one  who  lives  beyond  his  mirror.  He  had  never 
picked  a  collar  just  to  please  one  girl,  the  collar  being 
"sensible"  of  mode  and  somewhat  dusky;   his   ties 


REFINEMENT  167 

were  black,  and  black;  his  shirts  were  puffy 
of  bosom,  but  smeary  and  raggly  of  cuff.  He 
shaved  every  other  day,  and  Sunday.  Malice  said 
he  wore  stove-blacking  on  his  blunt-toed  boots,  but 
there  is  no  use  to  repeat  it.  Separate  hairs  of  his  head, 
though  few,  were  upright.  His  hands  always  looked 
"used,"  though  certainly  he  laved  them.  The  cuticle 
that  curved  above  his  opaque  nails  no  longer  worried 
him,  no  more  the  truck  that  underlay  their  edges.  He 
was  interesting,  and  rather  harmless  when  reduced  to 
paper. 

He  had  heard  Andrew  descend.  When  he  felt  the 
other  had  stopped.  Busby  turned  around.  He  always 
had  a  surprised  look,  not  always  pleased. 

"Good  evening,  Mr.  Busby." 

"U-m-m,  h-u-m-p,  evening!  Come  to  use  the 
'phone?"  The  office  telephone  was  paid  for  monthly, 
by  the  call.  That  was  five  cents.  Mr.  Busby  was  in 
charge. 

"Thanks,  Mr.  Busby,  I  don't  care  to  use  the  'phone. 
I  am  going  out." 

"Well,  fine  night.    Goo'  night." 

To  linger  seemed  beside  the  point.  Andy  went  out. 
Night-life  in  Mapleton  was  gay.  The  arc-lights 
flickered  brighter  from  the  corners,  and  there  were 
people  in  the  streets.  The  town's  first  annual 
Chautauqua  was  well  under  way.  The  Crier  welcomed 
it,  a  social  event  of  the  season. 

Passing  hardy  spirits  who  were  going,  Andrew 
turned  a  way  that  always  fascinated  him.  It  looked 
big.  It  was  the  stacks  and  factory-piles  of  Mapleton. 
Mapleton  just  now  was  industrially  busy.  It  was  for 
the  first  time.  A  favorite  candidate  had  been  elected 
by  the  people  and  confidence  —  whatever  that  may  be 
—  ran  rampant.     Full  dinner-pails  were  just  ahead; 


168  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

and  so-called  vested  capital  worked  hard  to  turn  ab- 
normal times  to  their  account.  New  factories  and  old 
created  all  day;  they  ran  full-swing  by  night. 

Andrew  came  to  one.  Dense  clouds  of  smoke  were 
bellying  from  it;  sparks  joined  them  and  were  lost  to 
sight;  a  roar  went  up  inside,  and  broke  away  so  that 
he  heard  the  rasp  of  saw  and  drill  and  all  the  piercing 
voices  of  the  mill.  It  ran  like  mad.  The  chug  of  its 
engines,  the  cries  of  its  men  —  great  human  emmets 
in  its  iron-crusted  bowels;  the  black  fumes  of  its 
stacks;  the  tang  of  its  breath  upon  the  face;  its  prod- 
ucts rushing  from  the  yards;  the  prints  of  its  work 
upon  the  earth  and  all  the  sooty,  coal-grimed  land 
around  cried  wildly  to  the  tranquil  sky  above  in  all 
its  screeching  littleness.  It  seemed  to  call  out  — 
"Money!     Menl     And  Money!     Give  us  more!" 

The  first  mill  was  planted  in  an  echoing,  smoke- 
choked  hollow  which  was  stifiing-full  of  rising  heat 
in  simimer.  About  the  first  one  there  stood  others. 
If  they  stopped,  you  heard  the  engines  draw  their 
breath,  champing,  panting,  gaining  steam  and  strength 
to  try  again.  Men  came  and  went,  in  morning  or  at 
night,  six  days  in  every  week.    Some  came  seven. 

As  Johnson  neared  the  last  a  quiet  came.  Some- 
thing in  the  iron  vitals  of  the  mill  had  given  way  and 
work  was  stopped.  Men  left  their  bendies,  put  down 
their  noisily  insistent  drills  and  dropped  their  hammers 
for  a  spell.  Firemen  laid  down  their  shovels  on  the  con- 
crete floors  and  left  their  furnace-maws.  The  doors  and 
windows  filled.  Their  dirty-colored  clothes  and  crowd- 
ing bodies  showed  dull-black  before  the  swinging  in- 
candescent lamps  inside.  One  or  two  among  them 
lighted  stimfipy  pipes  or  fished  out  half-smoked  stubs 
from  overalls  and  jumpers.  Hard  laughter  and  coarser 
words  came  over  the  sudden  stillness;  some  stepped 
outside  and  lay  upon  the  groimd. 


REFINEMENT  169 

A  puff  or  two,  a  little  rest,  and  then  a  short,  shrill 
whistle  blew.  Back,  back  they  thronged  again.  The 
noise  began  as  if  it  never  stopped  and  never  would, 
darker  smoke-masses  shot  up  and  out  the  chimneys,  and 
all  was  life  and  action.  The  hands  were  at  their 
lathes  and  drills  and  tables,  thinking  much  of  midnight 
and  a  lunch.  Minds  worked  with  hands.  One  day 
some  would  speed  up,  thought  Johnson,  as  he  left 
the  valley  of  industry  and  climbed  to  the  hill-top  of 
quiet. 


XXV 

In  the  dusk  of  a  cool  November  afternoon,  Andrew 
sat  in  his  corner  of  the  little  office,  half  home,  half 
working-place.  The  days  had  been  full,  but  this 
was  drawing  to  a  close.  He  relaxed.  He  sat 
as  near  at  ease  as  one  approached  inside  an  office 
planned  exclusively  with  work  in  mind. 

The  town  was  giving  signs  of  consciousness.  It  was 
not  yet  awake,  yet  something  stirred.  Ask  a  passer- 
by, he  could  not  tell  you  when  it  started;  inquire  of 
the  workman  and  he  was  at  a  loss;  seek  out  the  man  of 
business,  possibly  to  hear  that  things  were  "sort  of 
restless."  The  bank  could  add  that  money  was  flow- 
ing freely.  Restlessness,  perhaps  that  was  it.  To 
Andrew  it  occurred  at  times  that  Mapleton  had  just 
turned  over;  awake,  still  drowsy,  reclining  on  an 
elbow  with  filmy  opening  eye,  it  meditated  whether  to 
rise  or  fall  asleep  again.  Johnson  took  the  better  view, 
and  called  it  good. 

Yes,  there  was  life,  life  even  from  the  small-paned 
window  where  he  sat.  An  old  woman,  a  handkerchief 
across  her  faded  hair,  an  empty  basket  on  her  arm, 


170  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

went  shuffling  past;  the  Rev.  Sykes  came  from  an 
opposite  direction,  frock-coated,  stalking  erect  in  the 
way  of  the  Lord;  children  free  of  school  went  romping 
past,  a  lame  news-seller  had  the  Crier,  out  today;  a 
democrat  jolted  over  the  stones,  shook  with  the  ruts, 
and  stopped  close  by  to  hitch  the  lean-flanked  mare 
beside  the  park;  occasionally  a  business  man  or  idle 
woman  strolled  along;  a  heavy  limousine,  compact, 
voluptuous,  rolled  by;  and  a  wandering  beggar  from  the 
hills  asked  alms  of  the  few  who  came  and  generally 
passed.  Within  the  hour  a  creaking  ox-cart,  wooden- 
wheeled,  lurched  heavily  along  the  road,  a  well-heeled 
farmer  cantered  by  upon  a  small  bay  mule. 

Something  brought  him  back.  The  something  was 
old  Busby's  letting  fall  a  paper-weight  upon  the  floor. 
Old  Busby,  then,  was  dropped  as  someone  passed  the 
window.  In  the  dull  smokiness  of  the  autimin  day 
Andrew  saw  that  it  was  Barbara.  "Miss  Gates,"  he 
would  have  said.  He  thought  of  her  as  he  chose.  More 
than  a  hundred  feet  of  road,  two  sidewalks  and  some 
rows  of  trees  and  lawn  and  shrubbery  had  kept  them 
separated;  she  lived  on  "the  other  side  of  the  street." 
He  did  not  meet  her  often  and  talked  to  her  much 
less,  occasionally  at  church  and  sometimes  on  the 
street.  She  always  spoke,  and  it  puzzled  him,  since 
many  others  in  the  town  had  never  seen  him  since 
their  introduction.  He  was  a  nobody  and  none  had 
even  noticed  that. 

He'd  been  a  little  hurt  at  first.  Back  there,  up  in 
his  woods  and  hills,  if  you  once  knew  a  man  or  woman 
then  you  knew  him,  no  mistake.  You  might  be  Bill 
the  sawyer,  Jake  the  cut-ofi^  man  or  Sandy  Hanson's 
boy,  it  didn't  count.  He  was  not  born  some  banker's 
son  nor  yet  a  close-clipped  dancing  man.  His  father 
had  not  worn  a  linen  collar. 


REFINEMENT  171 

And  yet  with  Barbara  it  never  seemed  so,  queer  that 
it  should  not.  They  were  about  as  far  apart  as  a 
free-trader  and  a  good  old-time  protectionist  who  had 
inherited  his  views.  It  was  a  far  cry  indeed  from  old 
man  Johnson's  pine-board  cottage  to  the  brick-front 
dwelling  of  the  sharp-shod  business  man. 

Andrew  chose  to  fancy  to  himself  that,  half  a  chance, 
it  might  be  different.  So  now  in  passing  when  Barbara, 
just  by  some  happy  chance,  looked  in  the  small,  dark 
office  window  she  nodded  quickly  and  went  by. 
Andrew  wondered  if  she  saw  him  answer,  as  she 
hurried  on  along  the  park,  turned  at  the  crossing  toward 
her  home  and  was  at  last  lost  to  him  in  the  dusk  of  the 
evening  and  the  shade  of  her  father's  trees.  If  she 
hadn't,  though,  much  difference  it  would  make. 

Faugh!  this  poverty,  and  constant  work,  with  little 
irritations  and  the  petty  smallness  of  it  all  —  it  sick- 
ened him.  How  could  he  ring  in  a  change,  walking  when 
he  would  ride,  plodding  where  one  should  fly,  and  so 
slowly.  Hard  work  and  its  handmaiden  poverty  — 
why  did  they  always  go  together?  The  night  when  he 
stood  by  the  mill,  the  day  when  he  walked  near  the 
homes  of  the  poor,  the  years  when  he  lived  in  the 
shack  still  poorer,  what  had  he  felt  toward  them? 
Pity,  at  first  self-pity  perhaps,  then  sympathy  too,  and 
a  longing,  strong,  latent,  fierce,  to  help  them  up. 

A  sight  of  Barbara;  their  misery  and  long- 
emaciated  happiness  give  way  to  nearly  all  disgust. 
He  had  seen  too  much  of  that  other.  He  had  been  in 
it,  of  it,  it  had  always  been  himself.  To  get  away,  to 
forget,  to  lose  those  sights  and  sounds  and  morbidness, 
forever! 

How  many  times  it  happened. 

A  letter  from  his  mother  —  it  all  comes  back,  the 
feelings  of  a  moment  gone,  clean-swept  away,  and  he  is 


172  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

of  them:  relief  for  all  their  humble  suffering;  some 
happiness  displacing  misery;  a  clearer  gaze  for  ignor- 
ance; a  living  for  existence;  a  nobleness  for  degrada- 
tion; brave  independence  for  servility;  the  greater 
love  for  personal  greed;  fulness  for  starvation;  rest  for 
the  weary  and  strength  for  the  weak;  honest  manhood 
for  the  man;  ripe  womanhood  for  her;  a  childhood  for 
the  child. 

It  was  so  far,  from  the  low-built  tortuous  trail  to 
the  wide  highway  at  the  top.  Where  was  the  middle 
ground  —  the  trail  marked  "Justice"? 


THE  MARKET-PLACE 
XXVI 

A  FEW  years  spun  off  on  the  road  of  Millennium, 
and  though  the  goal  rests  so  much  nearer,  the 
end  of  the  journey  still  lies  more  than  the 
space  of  a  day's  journey  beyond.  Mapleton  and  the 
Fork  draw  nearer,  though  much  rough  road  yet  runs 
between.  The  bridge  of  Understanding  is  under  way 
but  hardly  more  than  its  superstructure  is  laid.  Be- 
tween lie  many  openings;  and  the  ends  of  the  frame- 
work, shot  out  from  each  side,  are  resting  on  air;  for 
they  are  not  yet  joined. 

When  Holden  Gates  had  ended  his  directors'  meet- 
ing on  that  day  he  was  not  empty-hearted,  though  his 
emotions  or  the  better  self  that  dwells  in  every  man 
were  not  too  violently  disturbed.  We  should  not  know 
Gates  and  say  that. 

Gates  was  Business,  the  Small  Business  of  yester- 
day running  the  Big  Business  of  today;  still,  however, 
Business.  It  was  Business  to  keep  the  men  on  hand; 
keep  the  crop  of  the  mill  full;  its  paunch  packed;  the 
hands  and  belly  working.  He  had  no  problem  of 
mental  anemia  or  any  sort  of  psychological  mal-treat- 
ment.  Oh,  no;  it  seemed  an  aggravated  form  of  in- 
dustrial indisposition,  or  indigestion  possibly.  Time 
perhaps  might  prescribe.  For  the  present  the  only 
remedy  seemed  a  graceless  giving-in  to  some  of  their 
demands.  Actually  they  had  required  but  the  shorter 
day.    Potentially  there  were  other  threats  and  rumors 

173 


174  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

of  threats.  Of  course  he  had  not  gone  up  to  the  Fork. 
The  men  asked  ten;  he  said  twelve.  He  yielded  up 
eleven  hours.  They  took  their  wages.  Another  time 
and  he  would  be  more  fortunate. 

Poor  Gates!  The  next  few  years  played  merry 
havoc  with  his  theories  and  heavy-headed  notions. 
Johnson,  though  Gates  did  not  notice,  made  progress 
with  his  law.  So  did  Gates'  daughter  with  her  cost- 
plus  schools.  The  girl  was  almost  through  her  last 
successful  coat  of  finishing.  It  was  on,  and  drying. 
The  problem  now  was  —  college  years  or  coming-out? 
Gates  talked  of  one,  his  wife  espoused  the  other. 
Barbara,  strangely,  favored  neither,  but  had  not  said 
so  yet. 

Regarding  Johnson,  he  had  chosen  coming-out.  Col- 
lege was  too  expensive  to  be  interesting.  A  few  good 
lawyers  and  a  drove  of  poor  ones  had  got  along  with- 
out it.  He  elected  law  at  once.  He  was  mature  enough 
and  showed  that  when  he  took  his  bar  examinations, 
early-winter  of  the  third  year.  He  even  passed.  Hav- 
ing studied  Gates'  methods  meantime,  he  saw  no  reason 
why  he  should  not  try  a  hand  at  practice  with  him.  In- 
vited, he  stayed. 

One  time,  it  happened  on  a  Christmas,  a  miracle 
struck  Andrew.  It  followed  an  experiment.  A  plain 
got-up  young  man  had  visited  Gates'  house.  He  did 
not  enter  behind  a  card.  He  did  however  ask  for 
Barbara,  and  oddly  was  admitted.  Despite  her  mother 
Barbara  had  very  nearly  whom  she  chose.  Gates  was 
independent,  notoriously  so.  His  wife  was  not  subor- 
dinate. Barbara  borrowed  of  both.  Her  parents 
offered  him  an  armed  acceptance,  though  no  very  warm 
one. 

However,  they  were  well  established  within  the 
inner  sanctum.    They  might  afford,  you  know,  to  have 


THE    MARKET-PLACE  175 

occasionally  a  plain  young  man  around  the  house.  This 
one  was  that,  indeed.  His  clothes  were  not  the  type 
for  which  you  read  the  magazines.  He  was  young, 
yet  of  the  hills,  where  the  young  are  old  and  the  old 
die  young;  and  no  one  is  ever  much  older  than  that. 
His  manner  was  plain  as  his  origin.  Barbara  confided 
once  to  Becky  Young,  her  chum  at  school,  that  he 
was  not  so  plain,  at  all.  Sometimes  to  her  he  fairly 
shone;  she  considered  him  a  man.  The  confidence 
was  given  soon  after  that  first  Christmas,  and  she  had 
since  had  ample  opportunity  to  change  her  predilec- 
tions as  she  wished.  A  new  note  found  the  heart  of 
Barbara,  and  stayed  to  fascinate. 

She  loved  the  Christmas  in  the  country.  She  never 
gave  it  up.  Her  mother  always  talked  of  Boston  or 
pictured  Broadway  in  its  splendid  spenders'  glow.  Her 
father  added  nothing.  "Christmas!"  —  what  was  it? 
He  still  had  his  work.  It  meant  a  small  turkey  to  each 
man-jack  and  householder  —  mock  the  term !  —  who 
dwelt  within  the  Fork,  a  Christmas  turkey  more  by 
way  of  compensation  for  a  past  than  promise  for  a 
future.  It  brought  a  fur  set  to  his  wife,  perhaps 
another  car,  a  badly  needed  necklace;  just  the  pur- 
chase of  real  gifts  for  an  immaterial  "I  thank  you." 
Surely  if  Christmas  owned  a  different  meaning  once  it 
must  have  been  because  it  was  the  first-made  anni- 
versary of  spending,  of  wasting  on  a  single  day  the 
pelf  you  worked  so  hard  to  gain  on  many  others. 
"Christmas?"  — bah! 

So  he  had  his  Christmas  Spirit,  too,  the  only  kind 
he  had  ever  known  since  his  own  mother  upon  a  far- 
back  day  had  tucked  some  nuts,  red  apples,  perhaps  a 
scarce,  new  quarter,  into  the  stocking  of  a  boy.  The 
boy  had  smiled  and  kissed  her.  The  day,  it  had  been 
wonderful. 


176  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

Yet  when  the  time  had  come  for  Barbara  to  go  away 
he  looked  ahead  to  see  her  coming  back.  Cynical, 
rough-made,  giver  of  hard  knocks,  taker  of  few,  glori- 
fying his  own  desires  while  he  discounted  others',  he, 
this  and  more,  turned  with  relief  to  his  daughter, 
turned  as  a  close-fisted  and  unrighteous  man  slips  off 
the  habit  of  a  week-day  to  don  with  sure  relief  a  mantle, 
good  and  generous,  for  Sunday.  His  lack  made  her 
more  precious;  and  he  knew  it. 

Wherein  Gates  rose  above  his  wife.  His  wife  had 
once  liked  him,  and  she  bore  a  great  love  for  herself, 
but  she  only  petted  her  daughter.  She  was  a  dear 
child,  but  when  children  are  born  you  must  nurse  them; 
and  when  they  grow  you  must  care  for  them;  and  you 
must  educate  them,  to  see  that  they  thread  life  well- 
dressed,  ornate  of  body  and  as  well  made-up  as  possible 
of  mind,  but  not  too  well;  they  must  be  properly 
brought  out;  finally,  well-married!  and  you  —  brave 
wife  —  are  free. 

But  do  not  judge  her  crossly,  just  a  modern  woman- 
type,  coarse  goods  but  tailor-made.  She  did  not  see 
his  love  of  the  girl  that  had  been  come  forth  to  rest 
again  on  the  girl  she  had  borne  him.  She  lived  very 
well  without  him,  poor  old  dear.  She  rarely  envied 
her  daughter  and  fancied  in  the  mouths  of  everyone, 
"Lovely  girl!  But  there  —  how  like  her  mother." 
Barbara  saw  only  a  mother.  She  did  not,  like  a 
suitor,  anticipate  the  day  that  they  would  be  as  one. 
It  was  no  certainty  indeed,  though  the  mold  of  Emma 
Gates  was  cast  before  the  day  of  Rome.  Barbara 
also  respected  her  father  as  the  just  and  righteous 
donor  of  all  good  and  useful  gifts.  She  regarded  him 
peculiarly.  She  was  the  one  in  a  world  that  loved  him, 
for  she  lived  nearest  and  she  knew  him  least.  If 
mother  submitted  to  father  in  terms  of  a  glorified 


THE    MARKET-PLACE  177 

check-book,  the  pity  due  must  vary  with  your  heart. 
She  only  felt  toward  Holden  Gates  what  Gates  showed 
toward  the  world,  his  world.  It  was  made  for  him,  and 
he  would  suck  the  measure  dry. 

Which  leads  a  far  way  from  Christmas,  and  Barbara. 
The  girl  had  loved  the  day,  more  than  ever  since  it  was 
her  coming  home.  It  brought  white  trees  and  glass- 
flecked  lawns,  ice-bridged,  beautiful  streams,  and 
strong,  chill  gusts  from  the  frosty  old  Man  of  the 
North,  blasts  that  chucked  you  under  the  chin  and 
watered  your  eyes,  colored  your  cheek  and  poured  a 
rich,  good  sauce  upon  your  appetite.  It  pleased  the 
palate  and  made  an  active,  virile  body  where  there  was 
rich,  good  food  to  tickle  one  and  a  plenty  of  warm- 
fashioned  things  to  trick  the  other. 

Barbara  was  home.  Andrew's  body  and  soul  were 
nearer  to  meeting  than  they  had  ever  been  before,  his 
mother  and  George  were  not  much  closer  the  harder 
things  if  they  were  not  farther  from  easy.  His  years 
of  study  by  good  right  of  perseverance  and  thin  liv- 
ing drew  near  their  close  and  he  no  longer  worried, 
^'much.  She  had  come  for  Christmas.  The  cutters  that 
followed  fresh,  eager  horses  over  the  white-packed 
streets  of  the  town  trailed  bells  that  were  never  nearer 
to  silver;  hale,  stout-made  farmers  and  their  families 
came,  bought  and  took  away;  the  denizens  of  a  growing 
place  of  industries  worked  hard  and  made  merry  as  the 
time  drew  near  and  passed.  He  was  to  see  her  often. 
The  rich  shopped  hard  by  day.  The  poor  owned  little 
stores  by  night  and  spent  their  cents  like  dollars.  The 
church  of  the  Reverend  Sykes  had  a  tree  with  poor 
candy  for  poorer  children;  and  small,  pert  snow- 
birds cried  their  way  about  the  white-laid  streets,  find- 
ing a  few  grains  here  and  a  morsel  there,  chirping  aloud 
in  happiness,  lauding  the  god  of  Waste.    He  wondered 


178  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

what  she  thought  of  him.  Respecting  the  Christmas 
of  Johnson,  Gates  gave  to  each  one  at  his  office  a 
present  —  cash  —  in  honor  of  Gates'  New  Year,  Four 
ample  seasons  had  passed.  His  enterprises  did  well. 
His  mill  was  at  capacity.  Prices  had  soared  at  his 
store.    Sometime  he  would  find  out. 

Their  third  Christmas  season  had  come.  The  first  — 
when  he  had  made  that  call  —  was  very  pleasant.  She 
gave  him  an  amber-stemmed  briar  on  the  second,  as 
also  "happy  returns,"  which  he  liked.  This  year  he 
had  a  gift  for  her,  that  lyric  "Dream  Life."  It  was 
sweet  and  he  fancied  the  suggestion. 

Fair  friends,  they  seldom  met  outside  her  home.  He 
rarely  had  time  for  parties,  and  often  needed  clothes 
and  invitations.    It  is  so  awkward  lacking  either. 

That  made  no  noticeable  difference.  He  saw  her 
often,  and  now  she  knew  she  was  glad  when  he  came. 
He  met  the  evening  train  on  this  return,  and  had  a 
minute's  chat  before  her  mother  whisked  her  away 
by  motor. 

The  night  before  Christmas  belonged  to  him  by  right 
of  might  and  their  preference.  Hattie  had  gone,  and 
was  forgotten  by  two-thirds  of  that  family.  Quite 
opportunely  pleasure  called  the  elder  Gates  away  and 
they  had  answered.  By  every  token  and  creed  their 
daughter's  place  was  with  them.  Conversely,  she  sat 
with  Andrew  in  the  rosy  glow  of  a  fire  of  cannel  coal. 

He  had  brought  his  book  of  dreams  and  she  of 
course  had  opened  it.  She  liked  it  and  he  was  good 
enough  to  indicate  some  favorite  passages.  Their  heads 
got  close  together,  with  their  minds  and  hearts.  There 
is  an  equality  in  fire-light.  Man's  hand  goes  out  to 
man,  and  it  is  good.  Dollar-piles  shrink  and  imagery 
is  favorable  and  fair.  She  was  only  a  daughter  of  men, 
and  he  a  strong  man  among  them. 


THE    MARKET-PLACE  179 

"Tell  me,"  he  said,  "why  are  your  letters  always 
exactly  alike?  You  might  have  them  mimeographed. 
They  would  certainly  do  as  well  for  Karl  Vogel  as  for 
me,  and  I  am  sure  the  Reverend  Sykes  would  find  them 
strictly  proper." 

"How  about  your  own,  then?  I'm  sure  I've  often 
thought  of  sharing  them  with  lots  of  girls  at  school." 

"Ah,  that's  hardly  fair,  is  it,  Barbara?  You 
know  —  " 

"I  know  very  little  indeed  about  you,  young  man." 

"Possibly,  and  that  is  just  as  well.  I  am  a  very  com- 
mon sort  of  animal,  as  anyone  can  see,  and  you  should 
be  well  satisfied  indeed  at  being  spared  the  telling  of  my 
beads.  I  have  any  amount  of  cardinal  sins,  and  the 
greatest  of  these  is  ambition." 

"Oh,  that's  too  bad,"  sighed  Barbara,  "I  don't  think 
I  believe  in  that,  much.  Just  think  of  what  it's  done 
to  lots  of  splendid  people.  I  wouldn't  want  to  mention 
father,  he's  such  a  dear,  you  know.  But  look  at  Mr. 
Busby.    I'm  sure  he's  very  ambitious." 

"Yes,  after  the  way  of  moles  perhaps.  I  am  very 
much  afraid,  though,  he  sees  ambition  and  progress 
as  a  never-ending  array  of  perfectly  balancing  ledgers, 
self-shining  shoes,  or  likely  some  Eldorado  where  pen- 
cil-points break  not  and  typewriters  never  run  down." 

"I  should  say  that's  rather  mean  of  you.  He's  very 
faithful." 

"And  I  suppose  that  I  am  faithless.  Were  I  less  so 
I  probably  should  be  feeding  some  machine  tonight, 
up  at  the  Fork,  earning  my  dozen  cents  per  hour 
and  thinking  of  my  piece  of  bread-and-cheese 
at  twelve.    I  should  have  stuck  to  my  last." 

"Oh,  I  never  think  that!"  cried  the  girl  with  real 
contrition.  "Please,  oh,  please,  do  not  speak  of  that 
Fork  again.     I  never  realized  what  it  meant  to  so 


180  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

many,  and  I  am  afraid  I  never  want  to.    It  seems  so 
horrible,  like  some  Gargantua  that  never  gets  enough." 

"Well,  isn't  it?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  never  used  to  think  so.  I  re- 
member I  just  loved  to  go  there  when  I  was  a  very  little 
girl.    It  looked  so  big,  and  fine,  and  busy." 

"Yes,  it  is  busy,"  he  replied. 

"Sometimes  father  would  drive  up  and  let  us  go 
along.  I  was  always  wild  to,  but  mamma  seldom  liked 
it.    Said  it  made  her  have  bad  dreams." 

"I  shouldn't  wonder,"  Andrew  offered.  "Do  you 
tnow,  it  sometimes  makes  me  feel  that  way,  really?" 

"I'm  afraid  that  you  are  adding  irony  to  other  learn- 
ing. One  Fourth,  though,  I  do  remember.  Father 
promised  to  take  us  up  to  the  Lake  the  day  before. 
You  know,  that  pretty  lake  just  north  of  Slab  Fork? 
'The  roads  were  terrible,  of  course,  but  we  made  mamma 
go,  and  Hattie,  and  actually  had  an  awfully  good  time. 
"We  spent  the  night  up  there.  There  was  a  dance  at 
tjne  of  the  cottages,  but  I  was  too  little  to  appreciate 
it.  After  lunch  the  next  day  we  started  back,  and 
stopped  for  half  an  hour  at  the  Fork  so  father  could 
see  a  foreman  about  something  he  said  was  terribly  im- 
portant. I  don't  suppose  it  was,  but  while  he  was 
talking  with  this  man,  mamma  and  Hattie  and  I 
stepped  out  of  the  car  for  a  little  stroll.  The  walking 
was  horribly  bad,  and  I  remember  I  got  my  nice  new 
little  slippers  quite  full  of  sawdust.  Your  roads  are 
very  poor,"  she  smiled.  "But  don't  interrupt,  I  haven't 
finished. 

"The  rest  all  wanted  to  climb  back  in  the  car,  but  I 
was  as  stubborn  and  mean  as  I  am  now,  and  they  were 
afraid  to  let  me  go  ahead  alone.  I  remember  there 
was  ever  so  much  noise  around  the  mill,  and  men  shout- 
ing, but  we  hardly  saw  anyone  there.     Oh,  yes,  we 


THE    MARKET-PLACE  181 

had  one  visitor,  a  little  boy  who  came  and  stared.  He 
was  so  queer!  I'm  sure  I'd  never  seen  anything  like 
him.  I  wanted  to  speak  to  him,  to  see  if  he  could  talk, 
but  mother  called  to  me  to  mend  my  pace.  Now  why 
are  you  smiling?" 

"That  was  your  first  real  admirer,  Barbara.  The 
queer  little  boy  was  I." 

She  blushed  very  rosily  and  prettily. 

He  went  on.  "That  was  the  very  first  time  I  saw 
you,  or  anyone  like  you.  You  were  as  strange  to  me. 
I  thought  I  had  seen  an  angel.  And  I've  never  been 
sure  that  I  didn't." 

There  was  lunch,  but  nobody  ate  it. 

"Have  you  known  all  the  time  that  it  was  I?" 

He  nodded,  "Yes,  I  have  never  forgotten.  You  made 
a  great  impression  on  that  day.  The  boy  remembered 
for  the  man.  It  was  the  first  time  I  ever  saw  you. 
When  was  the  second,  can  you  tell?" 

"Yes,  indeed,"  she  said,  "it  was  that  morning  at  the 
church,  so  very  long  ago.  And  I  remember,  too,  how 
sorry  I  really  felt  for  you  when  Crampton  told  me  you 
had  to  dine  at  Mr.  Dave's." 

"I  think  I  merited  your  sympathy,  certainly,  and  I 
am  glad  to  have  it,  even  late.  I  never  mentioned  our 
first  meeting  to  you,  even  after  I  knew.  I'm  not  sure 
that  I  have  ever  had  so  good  a  chance  before  tonight. 
And  then  again  I  wanted  to  bury  my  past.  I  thought 
that  possibly  you  might  in  time  learn  to  associate  me 
with  Mapleton,  and  lawyers'  offices  and  well-bred 
poverty." 

"I  don't  think  that's  very  kind,  Andrew.  You  ought 
to  know  that  I  think  more  of  you  for  what  you've  done, 
and  what  you  are  going  to  do.  To  you,  probably,  I  am 
only  a  silly,  very  young  girl,  just  from  school  with 
everything  to  learn  —  though  you  certainly  ought  to 


182  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

know  better.  Probably  I  have  not  had  many  oppor- 
tunities to  really  live  and  know.  I  have  learned, 
though,  a  very  great  deal  from  you  and  I  intend  to 
learn  more  for  myself.  Do  you  think  I  can.  Am  I  so 
absolutely  hopeless,  after  all?" 

Andrew  for  the  most  part  had  been  smoking,  and 
thinking,  but  he  could  not  resist  this  appeal.  He 
thought  to  pass  it  ofif  jokingly. 

"It  would  never  do  for  me  to  tell  you  what  I  think. 
/  am  the  hopeless  one,  I  fancy.  I  often  do  think, 
though,  how  everything  might  have  been  changed  if  it 
had  all  been  different,  my  home,  my  education,  my 
life,  my  hopes  and  prospects  but  mostly  I  myself." 

She  regarded  him  seriously.  "Surely,  Andy,  you 
don't  think  that  it  could  make  a  difference?  Why  —  " 
and  she  stopped. 

The  man's  face  flushed,  for  the  back-wash  of  those 
starving  years  was  strong. 

He  started  to  speak  —  paused  —  and  got  no  farther. 
The  girl  leaned  impulsively  toward  him,  a  perfect  offer- 
ing. There  were  sympathy  and  understanding  in  her 
eyes,  and  more,  as  they  met  his. 

He  saw  far  back  in  them,  and  was  unafraid. 

Later,  very  late,  they  realized  that  the  elder  Gates 
must  come  some  time.  These  would  not  care  to  find 
anyone  sampling  their  hospitality  at  that  hour. 
Andrew  shook  himself,  and  said  that  he  would  go. 

He  did  not  resist  another  word. 

"Just  think,  dear  Barbara,  you  are  so  wonderful, 
everything,  with  everything.  It  seems  so  strange;  for 
I  —  am  nothing." 

"Hush,  you  must  not  say  that  to  me,"  whispered 
the  girl,  drawing  nearer.  "If  I  am  satisfied  —  can't 
you  be  too?" 

Barbara  drew  his  head  down,  pressed  it  close  against 


THE    MARKET-PLACE  183 

her  breast.    She  placed  a  little  hand  that  was  velvet- 
soft  and  very  sweet  across  his  lips. 

Christmas  morning  Andrew  left  for  Slab  Fork. 

He  never  spent  the  day  in  Mapleton,  even  this,  his 
day-of-days.  The  few  who  had  been  left  him  beside 
the  River's  fork  up  there  called  silently.  He  always 
went,  took  what  he  could,  and  returned  with  their  love. 
It  was  his  mother's  day. 

It  was  the  day  all  Slab  Fork  was  itself:  some  men 
and  women. 


XXVII 

At  the  beginning  of  that  year  Barbara  declared 
firmly  but  quite  nicely  to  her  father  that  after  the 
close  of  the  next  spring's  term  she  was  not  going 
back.  Having  talked  the  matter  over  with  the  young 
woman's  mother,  it  was  allowed  to  lapse.  She  added 
nothing  as  to  plans;  they  had  agreed  it  was  not  best 
to,  yet. 

At  the  end  of  the  last  school  year  Barbara  came 
home.  She  stayed  there  quietly  perhaps  a  week.  One 
day  —  it  was  Thursday  —  she  appeared  at  breakfast 
announcing  she  thought  it  would  be  nice  to  run  up  to 
the  Fork  that  day  or  the  next.  It  being  breakfast  her 
father  was  about  to  rush  to  the  attack  at  once,  but  on 
looking  at  his  daughter  decided  to  postpone  it,  which 
spoke  quite  highly  for  his  daughter.  In  common  with 
good  men  his  early  hours  were  worst,  as  if  sour  dreams 
had  given  him  some  shaking-up  by  night. 

At  breakfast  —  without  reason  —  he  thought  "No!" 
and  was  as  anxious  to  cry  aloud  and  say  it;  at  lunch  he 
would  consider;   at  dinner  he  calmly  announced  an 


184  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

acceptance,  quite  as  though  he  had  intended  all  along 
to  give  his  orders  to  the  logging  train  conductor,  one 
John  Williams,  to  have  the  long-unused  frame  dwelling 
of  the  owner  put  in  proper  order  by  that  Saturday. 
Barbara  wisely  decided  to  wait,  since  her  plans  at  first 
were  sketchy  in  that  she  had  not  made  up  her  mind 
just  what  to  do  with  herself  once  at  the  Fork,  in  the 
event  she  had  gone  alone.  The  whole  of  it  was  Andrew 
rather  more  than  sociology,  although  she  was  coming 
to  think. 

So  early  Friday  morning  old  Mother  Minsky,  follow- 
ing arrival  of  the  train,  had  picked  her  a  broom  and  a 
pan,  stirred  up  the  heavy  time-thrown  dirt  of  the 
cottage  with  one  and  partially  carried  it  off  with  the 
other. 

On  Saturday  the  Gates  had  risen  at  a  frightful  hour 
and  made  their  train  with  something  of  a  retinue.  No 
machine  could  hold  them.  The  women  were  even  a 
little  late  since  poor  old  Williams  would  never  dare  to 
leave  without  them. 

By  eight  o'clock  they  were  driven  from  the  Station 
to  the  Store,  thence  to  the  local  summer  home,  in  Pete's 
honest,  well-intentioned  democrat.  Barbara  thought  it 
was  pretty  good  sport  to  be  cavorting  across  the  ruts 
and  into  the  pools  of  sawdust,  first  on  one  wheel,  then 
on  another,  and  Mrs.  Gates  vouchsafed  a  mild  though 
still  sincere  "Impossible!"  Arriving  at  the  cottage 
Mrs.  Gates  sank  down  upon  a  chair,  Mr.  Gates  strode 
over  to  the  mill  immediately,  and  Barbara  was  glad  to 
look  upon  the  town.  The  Mapleton  house  staff  mean- 
time followed  Mother  Minsky  inside,  looking  for  a 
clean  spot  as  their  nucleus  for  preparation. 

The  town  was  new  to  Barbara,  and  she  to  it.  She 
had  heard  enough  to  bias  her  quite  well  about  it,  cer- 
tainly.   In  limine  of  the  rarest  and  ripest  of  feminine 


THE    MARKET-PLACE  185 

jewels,  a  logically  reasoning  mind,  she  was  nothing  of 
the  kind  and  her  childhood  impressions  were  merely 
piqued  through  knowing  Johnson.  When  he  had  come, 
there  was  interest.  Her  trip,  so  suddenly  annoimced, 
had  followed  up  an  entertaining  conversation  they  had 
had  some  evenings  previous.    He  told  her  of  the  Fork. 

The  next  day  being  Sunday  in  the  world  outside,  at 
the  Fork  the  day  in  seven  where  most  work  ceased 
and  whistles  did  not  blow,  Barbara  came  to  know 
better  the  folk  of  her  man's  first  being.  She  thought 
maturely,  though  how  and  why  from  her  poor  ex- 
pensive opportunities  only  the  Great  Giver  of  Blessings 
himself  could  ever  have  told  you. 

While  she  peered  at  them  through  the  searching  glass 
of  sympathy  and  the  wistfulness  of  not  quite  under- 
standing, Johnson  sat  at  the  window  which  looked 
upon  the  Court  House  square  from  the  drab,  uncarpeted 
abode  of  the  fortunate  lawyer-clerk. 

He  had  heard  from  her,  a  letter  sent  him  on  the  day 
she  left  and  postmarked  "Mapleton."  She  omitted  to 
tell  him  where  she  had  gone,  but  it  was  very  sweet 
and  at  the  end  —  "yours  most  sincerely."  He  wasn't 
satisfied. 

He  was  asking  himself  what  she  might  see  in  them 
—  his  people.  But  when  he  wrote  it  was  not  of  this, 
for  love  has  no  business  with  questions. 

His  letter  grew;  it  sounds  very  fooUsh  now. 

"A  week  ago  .  .  .  and  you  and  I  sat  side- 
by-side  in  church.  You  were  attending  to  the 
service,  probably;  and  I  was  listening,  per- 
haps. 

"At  the  same  time  I  could  not  help  but  feel 
the  myriad  pulses  of  my  heart,  many  voices 
with  one  song;  nor  keep  from  stealing  now 


186  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

and  then  a  glance  at  you,  my  love,  so  close 
—  with  Miss  Convention  in  between. 

"I  wonder  if  another  week  will  bring  us 
back  again  as  we  were  then?  I  miss  you.  I 
miss  you  more  than  you  can  know,  I  think. 
My  heart  cries  out  for  you.    I  am  alone. 

"I  have  a  love  of  pictures.  One  of  my 
very  best  is  you,  a  week  ago.  We  were  to- 
gether then,  in  body,  spirit,  but  now  we  live 
uncounted  miles,  a  thousand  years,  apart. 
And  very  many  days.  What  failures  letters 
are! 

"You  know  I  love  you,  dearest,  dearest 
girl.  I  starve  for  want  of  you.  I  love  you 
far  away  —  but  better  here." 

Johnson  re-read  the  letter  and  laid  it  away  in  his 
dresser. 

A  few  mornings  later  Barbara  rose  with  the  song- 
birds that  came  and  laughed  about  the  window  where 
she  slept.  She  looked  from  the  window:  the  river, 
where  the  long  day's  smoke  did  not  yet  rest,  was  very 
fair;  the  flowers  looked  at  the  stm  and  trees  bent  to 
the  wind.  Sweet  air  enwrapped  her  with  fragrance  of 
days  that  are  new. 

She  left  their  house,  and  glimpsed  from  a  hill  the 
smoke  of  the  train  from  the  town  below.  As  she  stood 
there,  watching,  a  step  sounded  by  her  side;  and  when 
she  turned,  it  was  Johnson. 

Together  they  walked  a  little  way,  and  knew  that 
they  were  glad, 

"I  could  not  help  it,  Barbara.  I  had  to  come!  And 
your  letter  .  .  .  There  was  so  little  of  it,  dear.  You 
are  not  displeased?  I  needed  to  get  away,  somehow. 
Of  course  I've  taken  no  vacation.  Put  my  day's  trip 
down  to  that  if  it  would  please  you  more." 


THE    MARKET-PLACE  187 

"Oh,  Andrew,  I  .  .  .  Why!  Let's  walk  over  there, 
along  that  little  path.  Wouldn't  you  like  to?  And 
we  can  talk." 

They  started  where  a  grassy  footpath  led  crookedly 
away  and  through  a  tiny  meadow.  The  trail  lay 
smooth  and  brown,  and  all  about  it  was  the  field 
decked  out  with  ripe  blue-bottle  flowers;  it  turned  and 
twisted,  crossed  a  little  stream  of  noisy  voice  and  peb- 
bled bed,  went  up  and  past  a  green-topped  hill  and  to 
the  remnant  of  a  forest.  Where  spice  and  smoke-bush 
met  in  a  green-leaved  tangle,  and  the  little  clubbed  arms 
of  the  crow's-foot  reached  out  at  the  base  of  the  trees, 
they  found  a  seat  close  by  a  crumbling,  cast-down  pine. 

"And  to  find  you  here!  Barbara,  it  seems  impossible. 
What  could  have  made  you  come?  The  place  seems 
such  an  odd,  poor  setting  for  you;  here  where  my  own 
people  live,  and  sweat,  and  starve;  here  where 
yours  — " 

"Don't,  Andy,  I  can't  bear  it.  Did  you  ask  me  why 
I  came?  I  came  because  I  wanted  to  know,  wanted  to 
hear,  wanted  to  see  with  my  sight  —  myself  —  just  a 
few  of  the  things  you  have  told." 

"And  you  have,  Barbara?" 

"Yes,  indeed,  a  hundred  times  as  much  as  I  needed 
to  know  that  all  you  said  of  it  was  true.  I  didn't  be- 
lieve, I  couldn't,  that  my  world  had  held  a  place  like 
this  so  many  years. 

"The  afternoon,  that  day  I  came,  was  very  rainy. 
It  was  wet  and  cold,  for  summer.  Even  the  people 
seemed  to  drip  and  droop  as  they  went  about  their 
work  in  a  sort  of  sad,  half-hearted  fashion  as  if  they 
only  followed  the  way  of  their  fathers  —  and  could 
not  help  it  for  themselves. 

"Andy,  boy,  it  reminded  me  of  a  home  I  once  saw 
when  I  was  a  little  girl.    It  was  very  beautiful;  in  it 


188  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

lived  the  blind.  Next  it  stood  one  for  lovely  old  ladies, 
and  men;  it  was  hideous.  Flowers  crowded  the  doors 
of  the  sightless,  and  where  the  old  ones  lived  paint 
peeled  from  walls,  the  lawns  were  bare  with  dying 
grass  and  rotting  leaves. 

"The  woods  here  are  as  lovely,  and  empty,  as  the 
poor  little  town  below  is  horrible,  and  maybe  empty 
too.  And  the  people,  Andy  .  .  .  If  I  had  been  that 
same  little  girl,  I  should  have  stopped  one  of  them  as 
he  was  walking  by  and  said,  'Can  you  be  real?' 

"No  one  knew  me  at  first,  I  think,  and  —  but  are 
you  listening?  It  doesn't  tire  you?"  she  asked,  with 
wistful  eyes.  The  bloom  of  the  girl  was  at  its  full,  and 
Johnson  loved  her. 

"Dear  child,  how  could  it?  My  people  are  I,  and 
I  am  they.    Tell  me  more  of  myself." 

"Well,  then,  no  one  knew  who  I  was,  at  first,  for  I 
hadn't  been  here  since  I  was  small,  oh,  very  small.  So 
I  stopped  some  of  them  and  made  them  talk  to  me." 

"Which  wasn't  very  difficult,  I  think,"  added  the 
other. 

"You  musn't  interrupt.  I  stopped  a  few  of  them, 
children,  and  some  poor  old  women  too.  And  I  said, 
'Why  do  you  live  here?'  and  'Are  you  happy?'  They 
didn't  know!  though  one  or  two  of  the  children  said 
in  their  queer  little  voices,  'I  dunno,  it's  'cause  my 
folks  is  here  and  most  like  always  has  been.'  Even  the 
older  ones  couldn't  say  much  more.  But  one  old  lady 
told  me,  when  I  asked  her  if  she  were  really  happy, 
or  what,  said  'Gawd,  Miss,  I  ain't  got  feelin's.  I'm  only 
a  poor  old  woman  who  thinks  as  how  she's  lucky  with 
wood  in  her  stove-box  and  a  little  cold  chuck  on  her 
table.'  She  was  terrible,  too,  with  a  wart  on  her  chin. 
I  didn't  have  the  heart  to  ask  so  very  many  more. 

"But  there  was  one  old  gentleman  I  met,  and  he 


THE    MARKET-PLACE  189 

talked  with  me.  He  was  different  from  the  others,  for 
he  stopped  me.  He  took  off  his  hat  with  the  oddest 
old  grace  you  ever  saw,  and  said  'Excuse  me,  Miss,  but 
I  haven't  seen  your  like  for  so  long  I  couldn't  help 
speakin'.    You  ain't  offended?' 

"Of  course  I  said  no,  so  we  visited  a  little  while.  I 
asked  him  some  about  himself  and  then  I  spoke  of 
Daddy  as  'Mr.  Gates,'  and  do  you  know,  the  old  man 
swore,  most  dreadfully.  It  seemed  to  be  about  my 
Father,  too,  my  Father!  Why  do  you  suppose  he 
did  that,  Andy?" 

"Why,  why,  I  suppose  it  was  because"  —  the  man 
fumbled  —  "why,  I  suppose  the  reason  was,  he  may 
have  lost  his  job  or  something  through  him." 

"I  don't  think  so,  for  he  said  he  was  working,  and 
had  been,  for  years,  and  he  added  'Probably  I'll  keep 
on  working,  nothing  else,  till  that  old  cuss,  or  else 
me,  dies.  Workin'  for  nothing,  too,  when  once  I  could 
a  bought  him  for  a  song.' 

"Of  course  I  asked  him  what  he  meant,  but  he 
wouldn't  say  anything  more,  except,  'Perhaps  you 
might  be  kin  of  Mr.  Gates?'  I  tried  to  avoid  that, 
and  pretty  soon  he  went  along,  after  taking  his  hat  off 
in  the  same  way  again.  He  did  look  so  forlorn,  as  if  his 
wife  were  dead  or  something  and  he  lived  alone.  His 
face  was  very  rough  and  beardy.  Just  think,  perhaps 
he  hadn't  even  a  razor." 

"Yes,  and  think,  too,"  said  the  boy,  "of  Karl  Vogel, 
the  razor  without  a  beard.    Which  is  tragedy?" 

"Please  don't  joke.  He  looked  so  sad.  Who  could 
it  have  been?" 

"Indeed  I  don't  joke,  dear,  except  to  keep  up  spirits. 
I'm  serious  enough  inside.  It  was  probably  the  'Ad- 
mirable.' Queer  old  duck,  nice  to  me  too  when  I  was 
a  boy,  one  of  my  earliest  teachers. 


190  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

"His  name  —  the  'Admirable?'  I  believe  it  is  rather 
much  mooted  whether  he  was  sometime  dubbed  so  more 
for  the  character  still  left  him,  or  the  weaving,  sailor- 
like gait  you  may  have  noticed.  Etymology  is  loose  up 
here. 

"The  old  man  has  a  history,  but  very  few  can  know  it 
and  they  don't  seem  to  tell.    Perhaps  it's  just  as  well." 

"Perhaps,"  responded  the  girl,  without  knowing. 

"But  ah,  Barbara,  it  cuts  me  to  the  bone  sometimes, 
this  .  .  .  this  life,  this  Fork!  It's  part  of  me,  my 
mother  and  my  father,  blood  of  my  heart,  flesh  of  my 
body  —  and  I  can't  even  rip  it  out  if  I  would.  And  it 
is  very  sore.  I  wonder,  'Who's  to  blame  for  all  this 
misery  and  smallness,  and  this  little,  narrow-rutted 
life?'  Often  I  think,  'They  could  help  themselves  if 
they  would.'  They  never  have,  but  they  could  indeed 
and  by  Heaven,  I  think  some  day  they  will ! " 

His  voice  rang  out  so  strongly,  then  choked  away, 
that  the  girl  turned  eager  eyes  to  see.  His  eyes  were 
moist. 

"How  incomplete  it  all  is  here  —  men  alwa5rs  to 
work,  and  slave,  and  keep  on  serving;  and  maybe  even 
try  to  love.  The  woman's  part,  I  take  it,  is  to  give  of 
her  life  and  meantime  utter  thanks  for  what  she  gets  — 
down  there."    He  looked  toward  the  hive  below. 

"I  wonder  sometimes  when  their  hire  is  due," 

Her  mood  was  pleased  to  change.  She  rallied  him 
upon  his  ebbing  spirits,  at  first  without  success. 

"What  chance  have  I,"  he  said,  "oj  this  place,  jroin 
this  place,  to  really  get  away?  Where  can  it  lead? 
To  hve  life,  to  want  all  things  and  get  them!  to  grow  up 
fast  and  big  enough  to  reach  your  ..." 

"Andy  —  do  you  believe  in  fairy  stories?" 

"Sometimes,  or  I  used  to.  But  no  good  fairy  ever 
led  me  to  the  Land  of  Enchantment  over  the  Highway 


THE    MARKET-PLACE  191 

of  Happy  Endings.  Till  I  knew  you  I  lost  my  confi- 
dence in  them." 

"Well,  this  'fairy'  then  will  tell  you  a  story.  My  old 
Hattie,  when  I  was  a  really  small  girl,  used  to  tell  them 
to  me.  She  told  me  one  of  a  Poor  Young  Man.  I  want 
to  tell  you  that  —  sometime.  But  this  is  one  of  my 
very  own.  You  take  my  hand,  the  way  old  Hattie 
used  to  do.  And  don't  be  cross  if  I  forget  or  have  to 
stop. 

"Now  this  is  The  Story  of  the  Vine  That  Never  Quite 
Reached  to  the  Top. 

"One  day,  oh,  thousands  of  years  ago,  there  was  a 
small,  weak  seed.  It  was  so  small  no  one  had  ever 
noticed  it.  It  was  so  weak  it  couldn't  even  get  away 
from  home,  alone.  So  it  moped  in  a  corner  where  it 
fell  from  the  lap  of  the  Mother  Vine,  and  said  'It's 
just  my  luck.  Here  I  fall  from  a  nice  high  place  up 
where  my  mother  lived  down  to  this  small,  damp  hole, 
and  no  one  is  ever  going  to  help  me  get  away  or 
to  disport  myself  the  way  I'd  like  to.' 

"But  just  as  he  spoke  a  lucky  wind  came  blowing  its 
way  along,  and  even  before  the  little  seed-chap  could 
make  up  his  mind  whether  it  was  really  good  or  ill, 
whether  to  go  or  whether  to  stay,  or  whether  it  might 
even  be  his  chance,  it  picked  him  up  in  spite  of  himself 
and  carried  him  off,  far  from  the  damp,  low  hole,  all 
over  the  land  and  sea  to  an  old  brick  tower  that  rose 
from  a  hill  in  a  glorious  foreign  land. 

"It  set  him  down  there  quite  as  quickly  as  it  had 
swept  him  from  the  old-home  spot,  and  whistled  away 
no  doubt  to  look  for  another  small  chap.  He  was  still 
dissatisfied.  He  looked  this  way  and  he  peered  that, 
and  he  listened,  till  he  didn't  see  and  he  couldn't  hear 
the  faintest  sign  of  another  good-luck  breeze.  He 
didn't  have  a  thing  to  help  him,  so  by-and-by,  he 


192  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

was  so  disgruntled  and  unhappy,  he  thought  he'd  see 
if  he  couldn't  do  a  little  something  all  by  himself. 

"He  stuck  two  tiny,  rooty  feet  'way  down  in  the 
earth  where  he  lay  and  raising  his  neck  high-up  in  the 
air,  he  stretched.  Real  hard,  he  had  to  stretch,  but  he 
found  that  after  he  had  done  his  best  he  could  just 
reach  up  to  the  first  low  brick  of  the  tower.  'Here,'  he 
said,  'is  a  place  to  stand,  to  get  my  start.' 

"The  first  few  bricks  after  all  were  not  so  hard  as 
they  looked.  He  tried  one,  then  another.  Up  a  few 
inches,  then  a  few  feet,  he  rose  by  degrees  in  the  air. 
He  passed  low  vines  and  the  small,  short  grasses,  wav- 
ing and  laughing  and  jeering  at  them  as  he  went  along 
toward  the  top. 

"But  as  he  went  he  found  the  easy  going  got  a 
little  harder.  He  kept  looking  down  to  the  ground  and 
thought  how  hard  he  would  drop;  the  wind  was  edging 
around  him,  trying  to  make  him  fall;  other  vines,  still 
higher,  were  trying  some  of  them  to  choke  him  off. 
For  though  there  was  room  for  him  as  well,  they  wanted 
it  all  themselves  and  nobody  craved  a  crowd.  He 
started  to  whimper,  and  even  got  ready  to  fall. 

"When  the  sun  came  out  and  gave  a  warm,  en- 
couraging look  his  way,  it  seemed  to  say,  'Be  up  and 
doing,  son.  Forget  the  feet  below.  Get  right  along  to 
the  top.'  So  he  called  back,  'All  right';  and  started 
once  more.  Most  of  the  others  he  passed,  the  long 
hard  climb  seemed  now  a  little  way.  A  new  view 
appeared  as  he  rose;  the  few  hard  places  below  were 
lost  to  sight  and  soon  forgotten.  He  sang  as  he  worked 
and  stretched  and  grew.  His  world  below  and  all 
about  was  getting  very  fair. 

"Just  then  a  cloud  came  up.  It  wasn't  a  big  cloud, 
either,  but  from  where  he  rested  beside  the  tower, 
within  his  own  small  place,  it  looked  so  big  and  dark 


THE    MARKET-PLACE  193 

he  suddenly  lost  courage.  He  glanced  for  a  moment 
above.  There  was  room  at  the  top,  indeed.  It  had  not 
been  far  when  the  hours  were  bright,  but  in  the  lonely 
darkness  and  the  cold  it  seemed  hard  days  away. 

"  'With  a  little  sunshine  I  might  have  made  it,' 
he  cried,  as  he  looked  far  down,  saw  the  far  way  that 
he  would  have  to  drop,  and  let  his  fingers  slip. 

"And  when  he  was  all  crimipled  at  the  bottom;  bent 
as  he  fell,  the  long  months'  framework  smashed  to  little 
pieces,  the  sun  came  out.  It  was  warm  and  very  bright. 
The  long  rays,  glancing  downward,  spoke,  'Only  a 
little  farther,  we  could  have  said  to  you.  But  you  were 
weak,  and  could  not  grow  alone.'  'Yes,  I  was  weak,' 
he  answered;  and  the  little  vine,  down  once  more  where 
it  started,  fell  back  where  it  lay,  and  died." 

"  'Only  a  little  farther,'  dear  .  .  ." 

That  evening,  just  before  the  logging  train  slid  down- 
hill to  the  town,  she  left  her  hands  in  his  for  just  the 
moment  that  she  said, 

"Andy,  /  believe  in  you." 

He  returned  to  his  fight. 


XXVIII 

It  was  very  early.  Andrew  clumped  down  the 
twisting  little  staircase  of  the  office,  and  emerging  at 
the  foot  came  close  to  felling  Mr.  Busby,  who  had 
just  at  that  moment  entered  and  was  dumping  hat  and 
coat  upon  a  hook  behind  the  door. 

"Good-morning,  Mr.  Busby." 

"Grumph!" 

When  Andrew  had  been  a  student  his  activities  were 
somewhat  under  the  wing  of  Busby,  who  was  part 


194  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

clerk  and  the  remainder  man.  Busby  no  longer  in- 
terfered so  very  strongly  with  him,  having  a  newer 
apprentice  and  two  girl  stenographers  or  "lady 
secretaries." 

"Been  havin'  a  vacation,  huh?" 

"I  have,  for  a  day." 

"You  couldn't  'a'  been  back  sooner?  We're  powerful 
busy  now,  and  the  partners  got  a  mighty  sight  to  do. 
Here's  some  memorandums  they  handed  me  to  give 
you  yesterday." 

Andrew  followed  Busby  to  his  desk. 

"Umph!     Smoke,  don't  you?" 

■^'Yes,  sometimes." 

"Umph!  So  do  I."  Mr.  Busby  took  one  thin,  black 
-stogie  from  his  desk,  put  it  between  his  rather  mossy 
teeth,  then  lighted  it.  Tobacco  stench  blended  with 
breath  and  Andrew  turned  away.  Mr.  Busby  opened 
some  other  drawers,  closed  one  or  two  of  them  and 
let  the  others  go.    He  fumbled  around. 

He  was  one  of  the  good  old  type  which,  thanks  to 
Heaven,  will  follow  the  bison  and  passenger  pigeon. 
Modern  efficiency  kills  them  off,  these  men-clogs. 
Busby  was  as  he  was.  Chautauquas  failed  to  move  him. 
He  was  hopeless. 

Having  got  confusion  out  of  chaos,  Mr.  Busby's  long 
dark  finger  presently  alighted  on  the  papers,  entombed 
in  the  stogie  drawer.  He  had  written  them  himself: 
the  first  words  were  finely  printed;  a  line  of  less 
neat  writing;  then  the  rest  in  dots  and  dashes  scrambled 
up  with  periods  and  comma-marks.  Both  active 
partners  were  absent.  A  case,  a  very  minor  one,  had 
come  while  Johnson  was  away.  A  woodsman  had  been 
*'taken  in"  on  Sunday  night,  in  town.  They  said  he 
was  drunk.  He  claimed  he  had  been  freezing,  coming 
down  from  the  camps,  and  had  taken  a  nip  for  warmth. 


THE    MARKET-PLACE  195 

It  was  not  an  important  case.  The  fellow  was  poor, 
the  fee  wouldn't  be  much.  Meantime  he  was  snug  in 
jail. 

"Let  Johnson  practice  on  him,"  said  Gates  the  day 
before.  As  Busby  finished,  the  secretaries  burst  in. 
They  were  sisters  and  local  products. 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Busby,"  they  caroled. 

"Late,  eh?"  He  censored  tardiness  and  never 
noticed  overtime. 

Having  rushed  to  a  mirror  and  sauntered  to  a  desk^ 
the  elder  took  her  place  beside  the  mail-tray  while 
her  sister  started  filing.  Mr.  Busby  left  his  own  debris 
to  delve  into  the  mail,  began  a  letter,  then  remembered 
something.  He  left  one  sister  for  the  other,  looked  at 
the  work  she  was  filing  and  mumbled, 

"Haven't  you  finished  that  yet?  Here,  here's  some- 
thing  else  I  want  you  to  do,"  gave  her  some  pencils 
to  sharpen  and  a  will  to  copy,  and  rushed  back,  where 
he  picked  up  another  letter.  The  telephone  ringing, 
the  secretary  stopped  her  work  to  reach  for  the  instru- 
ment, which  graced  a  pile  of  notebooks,  pads  and 
office  riffraff.  Mr.  Busby's  pose  was  critical  as  Miss 
Meander  said,  "Call  for  Mr.  Johnson,  from  the  Fork." 

Mr.  Johnson  left  his  desk,  there  being  only  one 
connection. 

"Hello.    Hello.    What! 

"You  are? 

"Why,  that  is  wonderful. 

"What?  Nothing's  the  matter.  I'm  talking  from 
the  office. 

"Yes.  I  don't  know  whether  I  can.  You  want  me  to? 
You  do?  I  know  I  shouldn't.  Well,  that  will  make  me 
then.  Yes,  I  will.  You  may  count  on  it.  Tomorrow- 
night.    Thank  you.    Good-by." 

All  had  been  said  within  hearing  and  sight  of  our 


196  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

•small,  appreciative  group,  including  the  boy,  one  Cal- 
vin. Mr.  Busby  was  perhaps  more  impatient  as  he  tried 
to  dictate  and  catch  the  drift,  while  his  dictated-to 
did  her  best  under  conditions  so  provoking. 

"Oh,  excuse  me,  Mr.  Busby,  just  a  minute.  That 
reminds  me,  Mr.  Johnson,  someone  called  you  up  from 

there  day  before  yesterday.     Miss  ,  let's  see, 

what  was  her  name,  or  was  it  a  Mr.  Somebody?  They 
called  you  up  about  five,  no,  I  guess  it  was  after,  to 
say  .  .  .  Well!  I've  forgotten  just  what  they  said. 
They  called  up,  anyway.  I  told  them  you  weren't 
in." 

"Thank  you.  Miss  Lucy." 

"Miss  Meander,  if  you're  positive  you're  ready,  just 
take  this  .  .  ." 

The  stenographer  stiffened  perceptibly,  patting  her 
hair  where  it  rose  in  front.  Correspondence  at  last 
being  done  to  a  turn  and  to  as  much  apparent  satis- 
faction as  Mr.  Busby  ever  evinced,  he  looked  a  little 
farther  in  the  basket,  hurriedly  picked  out  a  small 
white  form  with  the  name  of  a  bank  at  the  top  and 
an  over-draft  toward  the  bottom,  muttered,  but  loudly 
enough  for  Miss  Lucy  to  hear, 

"Huh,  that  doggone  account  run  out  a'ready?  Put 
in  something  just  last  week."  Mr.  Busby  was  a  family 
man. 

The  young  lady  felt  in  a  desk  drawer,  groped 
among  a  handkerchief,  a  handbag,  a  scrap  of  sew- 
ing and  some  miscellany,  and  opened  her  mouth  again. 

"Mr.  Busby,  if  you  go  down  town,  we  need  some 
new  supplies," 

"How's  that?  What's  that?  What's  your  list  for 
this  time?" 

"Well,  we're  out  of  ink  for  the  stamp-pads  and  I 
need  a  new  typewriter  ribbon,  and  — " 


THE    MARKET-PLACE  197 

"I  should  think,  Miss  Lucy,  you  c'd  boil  the  old 
typewriter  ribbon  to  get  the  ink.  Lots  of  good  stuff 
left  in  it.  Read  the  other  day  of  something  of  the 
kind.  Thought  'twas  pretty  good.  Better  try  it.  Got 
to  have  more  efficiency,  or  something, 

"What  else  is  there?  No  stamps  again,  eh?  Well! 
what's  become  of  'em?  Used  'em,  eh?  I'll  have  to 
start  some  checkin'  up,  I  guess.  'Spose  I  c'n  get  'em 
if  I  have  to." 

He  gripped  his  hat,  swept  up  some  papers  from  his 
desk  and  rushed  headlong  out  of  the  door.  He  got  in 
a  small,  black  car  outside,  the  legal  conveyance  which 
everyone  used  and  nobody  cared  for.  Calvin  cranked, 
and  returning  to  the  office  found  breathing  easier. 
Johnson  was  endeavoring  to  pick  some  moldy  prece- 
dents from  books  and  a  modicum  of  information  from 
Busby's  impossible  notes.  The  ladies  worked  so  hard, 
they  often  stated,  that  when  no  one  but  they  were  there 
—  that  is,  neither  the  firm  nor  "that  old  Busby,"  "Mr. 
Johnson  only  worked  there,"  like  themselves,  —  they 
had  to  stop !    They  must  rest.    They  did. 

"Helene,  where  in  the  world  is  that  brief  of  old 
Mr.  Bennett's?"    It  was  Lucy  speaking. 

"Oh,  sister!  I  don't  know.  Don't  bother  me,  any- 
way; I  was  just  thinking  of  that  Mr.  Pichet  we  met 
last  night  over  at  the  Jones'.  Wasn't  that  horribly 
homely  girl  with  him  his  sister?  I  sh'd  think  so.  He's 
an  *it,'  but  how  he  waltzes.  And  his  eyes,  believe 
me  .  .  ." 

"I  don't  want  to  hear  about  his  eyes.  I  just  hate 
men  this  morning.  And  I'm  simply  burning  up  in  this 
stuffy  old  office.  I  think  I  have  a  fever.  Go  see  how 
warm  it  is." 

Helene  obligingly  catapulted  her  letters  into  the 
file,   and   dropping   Mr.   Pichet   consulted   the   ther- 


198  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

mometer.  Coming  back  she  picked  up  everything  again, 
averring  as  she  did  so  that  "the  thermometer  says 
only  68." 

"Well,  I  don't  care  if  it  does.  Oh,  my  dear,  there's 
something  wrong  with  me.  I'm  hot.  I  can't  work, 
I'm  tired.  I  alwa)^  am,  when  I  have  to  take  that  old, 
nasty  Busby's  dictation.    Ugh!" 

"There  now,  you  poor  child.  Don't  try  to  do  any 
more  till  he  gets  back.  You're  all  tired  out.  I  don't 
see  how  you  can  stand  it." 

"What,  the  dancing?" 

"No,  you  dear  stupid,  all  this  work.  You  ought 
not  to  have  to  do  it." 

"No,  we  shouldn't.  Both  of  us  should  have  at 
least  a  month's  vacation,  too.  I'd  just  go  to  bed  and 
stay  there,  except  maybe  evenings.  Most  stenographers 
can  probably  stand  it,  but  you  know,  sister  .  .  ." 

"Are  you  going  over  to  Madeleine  Scrubbs'  party  to- 
night? They  have  the  sweetest  new  Victrola.  It  looks 
as  if  I  were  going  to  have  a  very  busy  week. 
I  saw  Madeleine's  sister  this  morning;  you  know,  the 
one  that  didn't  marry.  My  dear,  you  couldn't  count 
the  wrinkles  in  her  face.    Well  .  .  ." 

"Walter  asked  me.  I  think  he's  sweet,  don't  you, 
Helene?  He  has  a  flat  nose,  but  lots  of  money.  I  do 
wish  though  he'd  cut  off  that  horrid  little  black 
moustache.    It's  —  well,  you  know  .  .  ." 

"Here,  try  some  of  this  gum  I  just  got.  It's  a  new 
flavor,  'spruce-mint.'  One  of  the  boys  had  some  at 
the  Post  Office  this  morning.  I  kept  mine.  Smell? 
Umm!  it's  good.  Are  you  going  to  have  that  crepe- 
de-chine  this  fall?" 

"I'm  going  to  have  that,  or  a  new  muslin  with 
scalloped  edging  and  two-thirds  sleeves.  I'm  tired  of 
these  dull  old  things.    I'm  going  to  bead  mine  and  make 


THE    MARKET-PLACE  199 

it  look  like  one  of  those  fifteen-dollar  waists.  Aren't 
they  wearin'  'em  full  this  fall?" 

"I  guess  so.  Do  you  want  that  brief  now?  I  suppose 
dear  old  Busby's  about  due  back." 

"Never  mind,  sister,  I  guess  we  won't  need  it  till 
tomorrow  anyway.    Let's  get  a  drink  of  water." 

"Can  you  see  what  time  it  is?"  looking  toward 
the  Court  House.  "I  feel  as  if  I'd  been  here  days 
already." 

"Only  ten  o'clock?" 

"Oh,  dear.  I  don't  see  how  the  time  can  drag  when 
we're  so  busy.  My,  I'm  anxious  to  get  through  this 
noon.  Mother '11  scream  when  she  sees  that  yellow 
ribbon  on  the  waist  Carrie  sent  me  this  morning.  It 
certainly  is  chick." 

"Sister,  do  stop  drumming  on  your  teeth  with  your 
pencil.    You're  such  a  cut-up." 

The  new  lawyer  hung  on,  and  tried  to  do  some  catch- 
as-catch-can  thinking.  As  Mr.  Bodeheaver  once  said, 
"They  were  right  chatty."  Johnson  envied  Calvin. 
Just  now  the  boy  was  buried  in  a  bursting  romance  of 
the  early  West,  a  nobly  hell-fire  place  where  good 
stenographers  were  barred  .  .  .  where  Mapleton  was 
not  ...  he  harked  to  Faro  Nell. 

Further  intercourse  was  ended  by  the  returning 
Busby,  who  left  his  car  with  a  leap  and  re-entered  the 
place  on  the  bound.  He  tendered  to  Miss  Lucy  a  full 
half-dozen  pen-points,  all  assorted,  three  pads  of  vary- 
ing size  but  one  pale  yellow  color,  an  "All- Wear"  type- 
writer ribbon,  part  of  a  bargain  in  pencils,  and  a  bottle 
"of  cheap  but  standard  ink"  as  he  himself  assured  her. 

"Here's  all  of  the  work,  Mr.  Busby." 

"Umph,  a'  right." 

One  "umph!"  for  thank  you,  two  "umphs!"  at  good- 
night; rarely  an  "umph!"  for  good-morning. 


200  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

He  was  of  them  that  are  never  born  young.  Yet 
Andrew  was  sometimes  glad  to  see  the  little,  futile 
man,  and  now  with  undinned  ears  he  bent  again  in  a 
noise  of  hammered  typewriter  keys  and  freshly  slam- 
ming files  to  proving  to  a  visionary  magistrate  just 
what  a  chilly  man  might  take  and  still  retain  his 
dignity. 

By  evening  he  had  dug  out  several  precedents.  He 
supped  at  Dave's  and  came  directly  back.  It  was  one 
of  his  earliest  cases  and  quite  as  unimportant  from  an 
able  lawyer's  angle.  Things  were  always  meagre 
enough,  assignments  of  "poor  cases"  from  the  Judge,  a 
pick-up  here,  a  hard  knot  there.  If  there  were  work 
to  do,  why  not  the  sort  that  carried  credit? 

Come,  this  was  plain  enough  and  he  would  drive  his 
own  stakes  well.  He  closed  a  volume  of  Common  Law 
and  lowered  the  top  of  his  desk.  Even  Busby  had  left. 
He  switched  off  the  light.  He  felt  like  bed;  and  some- 
times when  he  got  up  there  and  before  he  dropped  to 
sleep,  he  allowed  himself  to  think  that  all  would  be  as 
well  if  he  did  not  wake  up.  He  was  weak  tonight,  and 
empty.    Dave's  meal  had  long  since  been  assimilated. 

He  left  the  office  and  crossed  to  a  little  grocery.  It 
was  late  for  Mapleton,  but  in  the  corner  store  a  shaded 
kerosene  lamp  beamed  appetizingly  on  canned  pre- 
serves and  colorful  boxes  of  crackers.  A  little  old 
lady  in  black  popped  suddenly  out  of  a  comer  where 
she  had  been  knitting  and  dozing. 

"Good  evening,  Mr.  Johnson!  What's  your  pleasure 
tonight?  And  how  are  you  these  pleasant  days,  for  they 
are  pleasant,  aren't  they,  and  I  said  to  Jonathan  only 
yesterday,  'My!  Jonathan,  how  the  time  flies,  and  how 
my  days  get  happier  just  all  the  time.'  Sometimes 
I  get  to  wishing  it  wouldn't  go  so  fast  —  but  then  I 
think  that  that  ain't  right.    We're  all  here  for  some 


THE    MARKET-PLACE  201 

good  purpose,  but  when  our  time's  run  out,  why  well 
just  have  to  go  along  and  leave  our  niche  for  someone 
else  who'll  be  better  and  happier  maybe.  Least  that's 
what  I  tell  Jonathan,  and  he  thinks  just  as  I  do,  too. 
It  makes  me  glad. 

"But  how  are  you  tonight,  sir?  Seems  like  you're 
kind  of  quiet." 

"Just  a  little  fagged-out,  Mrs.  Sumner.  Things 
never  seem  to  break  too  well,  and  now  and  then  I 
find  myself  a  trifle  lonely  in  my  little  'world'." 

"Poor  boy,  I'd  think  you  would.  But  it  won't  last. 
I  used  to  tell  Jonathan  when  our  boy  Joe  was  sick 
and  the  store  wasn't  starting  to  pay,  and  I  not  so  very 
strong,  either,  not  least  as  I  am  now,  'Keep  sweet, 
Jonathan,  and  let's  be  as  happy  as  we  can.  Surely 
this  won't  last  forever,  I  know  the  Sun  is  there,  though 
it  may  be  hid  for  awhile.  Things  are  bound  to  take  a 
better  turn  —  you  see!'  and  somehow,  they  always 
did. 

"Here,  take  some  of  these  fresh  little  crackers  that 
just  came  in  today.  Don't  they  look  brown  and  nice? 
Just  as  if  the  baker'd  only  had  'em  in  his  oven  not  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  ago.  This  cheese  is  good.  My! 
Just  like  cream." 

So  ran  on  Mrs.  Sumner,  with  no  right  to  be  so 
happy.  Andrew  went  home.  He  had  confidence  in 
tomorrow. 

XXIX 

Sunlight  streamed  in  the  office-room.  Johnson 
sprang  from  bed  as  the  little  clock  warned  him  of  morn- 
ing.   It  was  his  day. 

He  splashed  himself  with  water  fresh  and  chilled 
from  the  September  hills,  and  shaved  and  partially  clad 


202  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

leaned  head  and  shoulders  from  the  open  window.  The 
sun's  rays  fell  across  his  face,  and  a  rising  breeze  with 
woods  and  autumn  in  it  waved  the  fading  leaves  out- 
side. Between  the  bending  trees  and  twisted  branches 
of  the  little  park  he  saw  the  Court  House,  could  even 
read  the  faint,  time-blurred  inscription,  "Hamlin 
County,  1859,"  so  deeply  cut  above  its  door.  Dew 
stood  upon  the  balcony  in  front,  where  sunlight  fell. 

"Right  there,  my  boy,"  he  thought,  "you  get  today 
another  try.  Pick  out  a  strangle-hold,  and  hang  on 
hard!" 

He  ducked  his  head  from  the  window,  eager  to 
dress  and  be  gone.  Hurr5dng  out  of  the  office  Johnson 
turned  toward  Dave's  and  breakfast,  for  he  had  pros- 
pered to  the  point  where  he  no  longed  served  his  own. 
He  did  not  notice  now  how  poor  Dave's  was. 

Breakfast  was  ready,  unchanged.  He  bolted  from 
here  to  the  office,  found  a  letter  indicating  that  Bar- 
bara must  have  come  home  the  night  before,  sat  down 
and  studied  once  more.  Shortly  before  ten  he  picked 
up  his  books  and  papers,  walked  through  the  trees 
to  the  Court  House  and  entered  the  great  front  door. 
It  was  early;  the  benches  in  the  park  were  scarcely 
fiUed. 

Threading  the  dark  corridor  and  going  up  the  wind- 
ing stairs  that  led  to  the  "chambers,"  he  had  his  client 
pointed  out  by  an  attendant.  The  prisoner  was  of  the 
woodsman  genus,  unclean  and  shaggy  from  habit  or 
force,  extra-unkempt  from  jail.  He  had  just  been 
brought  up  for  the  lawyer.  The  man  was  not  at 
ease,  and  did  not  look  around  till  Johnson  laid  a 
hand  upon  his  shoulder.  At  the  friendly  touch  he 
started,  then  turned  a  shamefaced  countenance.  The 
liquor's  red  was  somewhat  yellowed  by  two  bad  nights 
in  jail. 


THE    MARKET-PLACE  203 

Johnson  took  a  good  look,  and  placed  him  as  a 
workman  of  the  Fork,  Pete  Swanson.  He  had  been  a 
sober  chap,  a  man  of  some  family  and  perforce  a 
steady  worker  in  the  mill.  Pete  looked  sick  but 
gradually  perked  up. 

His  story  was  easily  told.  He  had  come  to  Maple- 
ton  two  nights  before,  "the  wife  bane  sick."  Their 
"doctor"  was  off  in  the  woods.  A  horse  was  bad  and  he 
was  needed.  Pete  was  an  ignorant  fellow,  but  even 
to  him  his  partner  seemed  ill.  Larrabie  finally  allowed 
him  to  forfeit  work  and  pay  for  a  night  and  go  to 
Mapleton  for  drugs.  "Be  back  tomorrow,  though!"  he 
warned,  and  that  was  two  mornings  ago. 

The  air  from  the  woods  was  cold  and  damp  as  the 
logger  slid  down  to  town,  and  a  wandering  "jack" 
from  the  hills  had  fished  out  a  flask  from  his  hip. 
After  a  comfortable  drain  he  proffered  the  remnants  to 
Pete.  Woods  invitations  to  the  cup  are  not  delivered 
to  be  declined.  Pete,  chilled  and  worried  much,  gave 
in.  The  bottle  was  of  noble  size.  As  glow  succeeded 
chill,  so  cold  soon  followed  liquor.  More  fuel  was 
fed  to  their  engines.  Pete  was  in  poor  training.  He 
hardly  knew  when  they  got  to  town;  much  less  was 
he  aware  of  any  doctor's  habitat.  In  a  bad  moment 
he  inquired,  but  of  a  local  officer  who  hung  about  to 
see  the  trains  come  in.  Stray  drunks  quite  often 
arrived  by  that  route  and  constables  were  paid  per 
piece.    So  Pete  paid  toll. 

Judge  Flexner  came  in.  Several  visitors  had  also 
entered  in  the  meantime,  though  Andrew  failed  to 
notice  them  particularly.  Pete's  case  was  called  and 
witnesses  appeared.  He  had  been  bad.  The  officer 
made  it  clear.  Swanson  was  sworn  and  haltingly  con- 
firmed it.  It  looked  as  though  his  wife  might  not  need 
medicine  were  it  to  come  by  him. 


204  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

Johnson  faced  the  Judge.  His  knees  trembled  well 
with  his  voice,  which  lacked  assurance  at  the  first 
Certain  of  something  to  say,  he  shortly  made  easier 
progress. 

"Your  Honor,  I  should  like  to  add  a  little  before 
you  pass  upon  this  case. 

"The  man  was  drunk.  There  is  no  doubt  of  that. 
To  argue  it  would  be  beside  the  point,  as  I  am  very 
ready  to  admit.  But  there  is  some  extenuation.  I 
know  him,  and  I  know  why  he  fell  down. 

"He  is  not  used  to  it.  More,  I  do  not  think  that  he 
has  ever  used  it  when  at  home.  Unaccustomed,  he 
was  a  very  easy  mark,  I  do  not  doubt. 

"That  he  has  kept  without  it  in  the  woods  is  pointed 
evidence.  I  was  born  there.  It  is  a  place  of  hard 
work  and  strong  liquor,  and  the  men  —  if  ever  such 
a  thing  were  justified  —  are  certainly  entitled  to  any- 
thing that  will  lighten,  even  so  little,  their  load  of 
abominable  living.  I  do  not  advocate  it,  though  I  can 
myself  excuse  it  to  a  great  extent.  Its  use  no  doubt 
may  aggravate  conditions,  but  indeed  it  seems  to  help 
sometimes.  Drink  in  the  morning  and  drink  at  night 
may  be  a  cause,  or  a  result.  I  myself  can  witness  that, 
confronted  by  conditions  wholly  foreign  to  most,  this 
man  has  nevertheless  lived  right  and  according  to 
plainer  lights  than  his. 

"He  left  a  wife  up  there,  weak,  sick,  suffering.  He 
left  her  with  small  children.  The  only  doctor  was  gone, 
perhaps  for  days.  Futile  no  doubt  as  it  was,  this  man 
came  down  here  to  get  help.  Whether  the  need  for  it 
may  still  exist  I  do  not  know.  Neither  does  the 
husband  of  the  woman  nor  the  father  of  her  children." 

Pete  followed  all  in  part,  the  last  he  fully  understood. 
He  bent  his  tired  face,  his  clumsy  shoulders  shook. 

"If  he  returns,  your  Honor,  now,  he  may  get  back  his 


THE    MARKET-PLACE  205 

job.  Should  he  be  kept  it  will  not  help  a  lesson  I 
promise  you  that  Pete  has  learned  already.  He  may 
arrive  in  time  to  help  his  wife.  He  was  mistaken, 
certainly,  but  at  a  time  of  physical  discomfort  and  a 
little-understood  anxiety.  I  should  also  like  to  be  his 
surety  that  he  will  not  come  back.  I  move  he  be 
discharged." 

Pete  gazed  up  at  the  Magistrate  with  his  awkward, 
miserable  face.  The  Judge  looked  back,  yawned,  blew 
his  nose,  and  grunted,  "Case  dismissed !    The  next! " 

,  Johnson  sat  down  beside  the  late  prisoner.  He  wrote 
him  a  note  to  Larrabie,  found  him  reduced  in  money 
and  gave  him  something  from  a  purse  so  impretending 
that  he  noticed  there  was  not  enough  for  even  this 
week's  reckoning  with  Dave.  Pete  would  have  re- 
fused and  his  face  reddened  again,  but  Johnson  rose, 
told  him  the  way  to  the  doctor's,  bade  him  good  luck 
and  walked  part  way  to  the  door  with  him.  Some 
people  were  crowded  about  the  entrance,  where  the 
two  stopp)ed. 

Pete  mumbled  out  that  he  would  not  forget,  saw  that 
the  money  was  still  in  his  pocket,  seized  Andrew's  hand, 
and  hurriedly  left  amid  laughter.  No  one  doubted  his 
going  home. 

Johnson  looked  about.  He  saw  several  factory  hands 
he  knew,  probably  now  on  the  night  shift.  There 
was  one  whom  Johnson  recognized  as  a  local  organizer, 
a  leader  and  honest  friend  of  the  people.  This  chap, 
Hal  Jenkins,  came  up  and  shook  his  hand,  introduced 
him  to  the  others  and  chatted  for  a  moment.  There  was 
quite  a  little  crowd,  and  all  congratulated  him. 

"Well  done,  boy,"  said  Jenkins.  "You  got  him  off 
fine,  but  you  won't  never  get  rich  off'n  fellows  like  him 
or  us,  will  ye?" 

Another  said,  "How'U  you  spend  your  fee?"  while  a 


206  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

third  added,  "Don't  mind  'em,  son,  you  ain't  no  poorer. 
Like  as  not  you  may  be  better  off  some  day.  Plenty 
as  takes  poor  cases  as  if  they  has  to.  You  take 
a-hold  as  if  you  wanted  to." 

"Yes,"  cut  in  Jenkins,  "that's  about  how  things  stack 
up  with  me,  too,  Johnson.  Wait  a  bit  and  you'll  land 
yet.    So  long,  boys,  I  gotta  be  goin'." 

"So  long,  Hal,"  they  called  to  him,  and  gradually 
their  crowd  passed  out. 

They  had  formed  a  little  ring,  and  Andrew  had  had 
his  eye  on  Jenkins.  But  now  he  heard  a  slight  cough 
to  one  side.    It  was  Barbara. 

"You!"  he  started  to  say,  and  noticed  Karl  Vogel. 
Karl  turned  a  pair  of  easy-going  eyes  and  a  little  trig 
moustache  upon  him  with,  "Ah,  coming  up  in  the 
world,  old  man?" 

He  went  a  little  way  along,  as  if  to  hurry  Barbara. 
She  stopped  by  Johnson  for  a  moment. 

"Andrew,  you're  going  with  me  tonight,  aren^t  you? 
You  must!" 

And  when  he  had  accepted,  but  not  as  if  he  must 
—  "Indeed,  that  was  a  very  splendid  thing  you  did 
just  now.  I  heard  what  the  man  said  afterward,  too, 
'Just  wait  a  bit,  and  you'll  land  yet.'  You  will,  you 
will,  I  know  it! 

"That  poor  man,  too.  One  of  Papa's,  wasn't  he? 
So  awful  and  discouraged,  he  made  my  heart  ache. 
He  told  me  of  the  Fork,  all  through." 

"That  is  the  Fork,"  said  Andrew,  as  they  left  the 
Court  House. 


XXX 

A  BLARE  of  drum  and  bell,  the  swish  of  skirts,  the 
busy  emptiness  of  talk  —  it  is  a  dance. 


THE    MARKET-PLACE  207 

Hereby  be  it  known  to  all  to  whom  these  greetmgs 
may  come  that  Mapleton  was  in  possession  of  a 
Country  Club.  It  was  really  a  Club  and  it  was 
actually  in  the  country.  Mapleton  a  few  years  since 
had  writ  herself  down  a  partial-progressive.  The  spirit 
was  sweeping  on  East  from  the  West,  and  a  little  live 
spark  had  caught.  First  it  had  added  a  factory  or  two, 
then  raised  itself  a  fresh-air  club. 

It  was  the  regular  "Saturday  night." 

The  Club  from  its  piece  of  hill  flashed  winking  eyes 
about  the  country.  Its  grounds  sparkled  with  the 
lamps  of  the  nouveau  riche  in  motor,  and  those  less 
brilliant  of  the  vieux  pauvre,  in  carriage.  The  Club 
had  a  large  membership  and  what  goes  with  it. 

One  motor  larger  than  the  rest  purred  up  the  drive 
to  its  crest,  and  let  the  occupants  descend.  They  were 
two,  and  they  were  Barbara  and  Johnson.  Together 
they  mounted  the  steps  of  the  Club,  she  in  the  dull 
expectant  glow  of  many  evenings,  he  walking  to  his 
first  and  in  attire  far  ways  from  second-nature.  She 
was  animated,  very,  and  he  looked  flushed  and  happy. 
The  music  burst  upon  them  as  they  topped  the  steps; 
he  thought  that  it  was  good. 

"Excuse  me  just  a  moment,  will  you,  dear?"  said 
Barbara,  and  she  was  off  to  where  a  little  company 
was  streaming  in  and  issuing  out,  wrap-laden  or  not 
much  clad.  He  followed  the  men  to  a  corner  and  bar- 
tered his  coat  and  hat  for  an  oblong  of  numbered  brass. 
He  looked  at  his  hair,  if  you  will  know,  and  also 
straightened  his  tie.  He  must  not  be  late,  and  when  he 
had  returned  his  partner  did  not  come  for  several 
minutes.  There  were  people  he  knew,  but  few  knew 
him. 

Then  she  stood  by  him,  young,  lovely,  rich  with  life. 
There  was  a  hand  on  his  arm  and  a  voice  at  his  side, 


208  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

and  she  had  come  back  before  he  knew.  He  looked 
and  caught  his  breath.  She  was  a  revelation,  according 
to  the  fashions. 

When  she  said,  "Do  you  like  it  —  my  gown?"  he 
looked  at  her  and  saw  a  glorious  neck,  white,  roimding 
arms,  soft  hair  like  ravelled  silk  and  framed  by  it  a 
most  bewitching  face  rose-flushed  with  joy.  So  he 
said,  "Of  course  I  do,  dear  child." 

She  looked  up  pleased;  she  was  only  a  girl. 

"  'Child,'  indeed,"  she  answered.  "Come,"  as  a  waltz 
was  wafted  in,  "we  can't  waste  any  of  this." 

So  they  went  in  and  through  it  all  he  wished  that  his 
accomplishments  were  not  so  usefid.  Her  dancing  was 
a  song,  and  his  was  new.  Others  came  up  to  break 
his  dances,  and  there  were  different  girls,  so  cordial 
now  since  he  had  come  with  her  —  "their  queen"  he 
sentimentalized  as  now  and  then  he  glimpsed  her  on  the 
floor.  He  wondered  if  he  liked  it  all  as  she  spun  by 
in  others'  arms,  held  tightly  usually. 

Since  he  was  now  all  right  he  danced  with  several 
girls  she  introduced,  and  all  frisked  well  and  most 
of  them  were  interesting,  tonight.  It  was  an  early  taste. 
After  a  time  he  tired.  He  walked  through  one  of  tlie 
tall  French  windows,  to  a  gallery  that  circled  the  hall. 
It  presented  down  below  a  multitude  of  dimming  lights. 
It  captured  the  voices  of  woods  and  the  river,  with  up 
above  the  stars  and  a  thin  wedge  of  moon  high-mounted 
in  the  heaven. 

He  turned,  and  looked  at  dancers.  What  a  con^jany, 
indeed.  He,  even,  saw  that.  Figures  and  faces  were 
finely  limned  by  the  lights  above  and  behind.  The 
girls,  how  attractive,  as  flimsily  overpowering  as  fashion 
and  good  mothers  might  achieve.  He  saw  a  woman 
who  did  not  seem  jealous;  she  was  looking  at  her 
daughter.     A   person   skipped   into   view.     He   was 


THE    MARKET-PLACE  209 

small,  his  face  indulged  a  light,  stiff-waxed  moustache, 
and  on  his  wrist  was  strapped  a  little  band  of  gold. 
It  was  so  delicate  and  held  a  pretty  watch.  He  was 
a  splendid  dancer,  and  most  popular.  "Bah,"  thought 
Johnson,  "  'not  even  food  for  the  saw.' "  Johnson 
wished  that  he  were  not  a  man;  but  only  for  a  moment. 
He  was  finding  a  perspective.  He  glanced  at  certain 
girls  again  —  Bernadette  Dennis,  Hermione  Iris  Smith, 
and  even  Carribel  Chubb.  Their  people  had  grabbed 
money  within  this  generation.  They  had  been  to  school, 
poor  dears,  but  they  had  never  graduated.  They  had 
a  kind  of  wonderful  clothes  and  were  comfortably 
covered  with  jewels.  Their  partners  were  either  too 
young  or  too  old  but  all  had  a  good  time.  Andrew 
judged  them  by  Barbara.  The  Dennises  and  Smiths, 
perhaps,  were  hardly  wealthy  enough.  He  thought  of 
his  stiff  old-fashioned  ideals:  of  man  in  the  market- 
place of  the  world  and  a  woman  in  his  home.  Why, 
that  was  just  where  they  must  never  be!  He  mused 
of  Barbara's  ideal  man,  so  often  painted  for  him.  He 
laughed.    He  used  to  fancy  it  was  he! 

Andrew  had  not  seen  her  now  for  several  dances. 
Under  the  gallery  was  a  terrace  that  ran  the  length 
of  the  Club  and  near  the  terrace  were  tables.  He  had 
thought  he  caught  her  voice  in  a  lull  between  the 
dances,  so  he  re-entered  the  room  and  went  on  down 
to  the  garden.  There  seemed  to  be  some  drinking 
here  and  many  had  refreshments  of  their  choice.  It 
was  dark,  but  now  and  then  he  recognized  a  face  as 
he  made  toward  the  end.  Out,  safely  off  from  the 
crowd  and  the  dancers,  he  stumbled  past  a  table  where 
Mr.  Bodeheaver  supped  with  a  friend.  Mr.  Bode- 
heaver  was  slightly  tippled,  but  asseverated  stoutly 
that  "in  the  spirit  of  Nathan  Yale,  'I  would  rather  be 
tight  than  be  President.'  A  little  more  bermuth, 
waiter!" 


210  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

He  kept  along  and  heard  a  voice,  coarse,  loud,  pro- 
ceeding from  around  a  clump  of  shrubbery.  A  chap 
was  sajdng,  "And  I  tell  you,  too,  the  man  is  so  far 
behind  the  woman  of  today  —  except  for  cigars  — 
that  when  he  takes  her  hand  she  is  already  tasting 
their  first  kiss. 

"But  /  don't  care,  I'm  sure,  I  don't  care  at  all. 
Women  aren't  worrying  me.  Maybe  you  lose  one  now 
and  again.  'Take  heart,'  say  I,  'the  Lord  will  quickly 
provide.'    There's  always  too  many  more." 

There  followed  a  muffled  "Oh!"  another  voice. 
Andrew  cleared  the  hedge.  A  man,  he  saw  it  was 
Karl  Vogel,  had  wrapped  an  arm  about  a  girl  who  sat 
quite  near.  On  the  table  were  glasses,  one  empty,  one 
partly  filled.    Andrew  noticed  as  he  came. 

"Come  on,  take  it,  take  it,"  Vogel  went  on,  "  '11 
do  you  good."  He  shoved  the  glass  at  the  girl,  then 
ventured  further  intimacy. 

Johnson  did  not  talk.  This  was  a  girl,  he  was  a 
man  and  here  a  chap  who  was  no  longer  one.  He 
rushed  in,  caught  Vogel  by  the  shoulders  and  dropped 
him  on  the  ground.  His  chair  fell.  The  half -full  glass 
balanced  uncertainly,  then  spilled  on  the  man  beneath. 
Andrew  stepped  to  the  girl,  who  had  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands.    It  happened  to  be  Barbara. 

Vogel  was  still  on  the  ground.  Johnson  clenched 
a  fist,  but  the  girl  raised  her  head,  saw  him,  and 
caught  his  hand  in  both  of  hers. 

"Take  me  home,  Andrew,  please  take  me  home. 
I've  had  enough."  Her  voice  trembled,  and  Andrew 
took  her  arm.  He  smelled  the  faint  aroma  of  the 
liquor  that  had  been  before  them.  His  heart  throbbed 
and  his  brain  worked  angrily,  but  he  did  not  advise. 
Few  young  persons  care  to  learn  by  proxy.  He  noted 
with  relief   that  no  others  were   about.     Probably, 


THE    MARKET-PLACE  211 

though,  it  would  not  have  mattered.  He  ached  all 
over  and  did  not  feel  like  talking.  He  had  little 
cultivation,  so  excuse  him. 

Barbara  felt  of  her  hair,  and  they  went  into  the 
Club.  The  music  had  stopped.  It  was  twelve.  Some 
yawning  men  and  more  polite  women  were  all  that 
was  left  of  the  dance.  They  got  into  their  wraps.  The 
door  man  called  for  her  motor.  It  was  tiie  same 
simmier  loveliness  as  when  they  came. 

At  the  Gates'  Andrew  spoke  awkwardly  to  thank 
her  for  his  evening.  She  waited  a  moment,  looked  close 
in  his  face.    "Good-night,"  and  she  was  gone. 

He  went  to  his  little  room  on  the  other  side  of  the 
street.  Dreams,  when  they  came,  were  made  of  Bar- 
bara and  Vogel,  of  Mr.  Bodeheaver,  and  of  a  dainty 
watch  worn  at  the  wrist. 


XXXI 

Now  once  upon  a  time  —  in  the  sweet  old  fashion  of 
things  that  weren't  or  things  that  ought  never  to  be  — 
came  a  new  country.  Because  that  also  was  new  and 
made  pleasant  sounds  in  the  ear,  they  called  it 
"America."  From  small  it  grew  great;  and  from  new, 
old,  till  it  seemed  its  out-croppings  and  off-shootings, 
would  never  cease. 

So  to  keep  affairs  at  anchor  and  see  that  all  did  not 
shoot  up  too  great  or  suddenly,  the  ancestors  devised 
a  plan  for  choking  tendencies.  They  made  a  Congress. 
The  head  of  this  body  they  termed  a  Senate  —  "of 
venerable,  distinguished  men."  As  for  the  feet,  one 
called  them  Representatives,  the  latter  meant,  oddly 
enough,  to  represent  a  people.  It  was  their  very  own 
play-ground    of    legislative    reference.     If    ever    old 


212  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

poptdi's  sons  grew  too  excessively  playful  the  Senate 
was  there,  like  any  good  Queen,  to  promptly  "off  with 
their  heads."  And  for  a  while  it  worked,  and  many  lost 
their  heads. 

In  more  than  one  community  there  was  an  over-store 
of  politicians.  All  right,  then,  send  the  Boys  to  Con- 
gress. I  need  a  better  landing  back  of  my  summer- 
house,  you  have  just  skads  of  poor,  abandoned  land 
the  very  thing  for  cantonments.  I  shall  allow  the 
Government  to  dredge  my  little  creek,  and  you  of 
course  won't  mind  one  mite  in  case  good  Uncle  Sam 
longs  for  the  hxunmocks  of  your  fields  to  pitch  his 
soldiers'  tents  or  feed  the  good  thick  weeds  to  army 
horses.  It's  a  cinch!  Off  with  all  coats  and  vests, 
and  get  your  favorite  son  along  to  Congress. 

We  pack  '«n  off  to  Washington,  and  then  they  do 
the  rest.  In  time  I  find  a  harbor  by  my  home;  you  see 
your  pasture-field  go  white  with  tents  a  month  a 
summer  (and  just  as  fat  for  cows  at  other  times).  If 
you  are  good  you  may  with  reason  count  on  turnip-seed 
in  packs;  if  you  are  very  good,  perhaps  some  plum. 

Sometimes  a  Boy  got  home.  He  came  cheek-full  of 
tales,  with  a  prolonged  cigar  or  maybe  whiskers  done 
in  plaits,  and  usually  he'd  saved  enough  to  live  the 
ripened  measure  of  his  days  with  reminiscing.  It 
was  a  fulsome  life,  and  none  who'd  played  the  game 
could  see  himself  why  proletariat  should  not  tip  hats 
and  cheer. 

Yet  gradually  came  discontent  anent  the  Head  and 
Feet  of  Congress.  Some  didn't  get  all  they  ought;  the 
back-yard  creeks  gave  out;  or  squash-seed  didn't  last. 
One  couldn't  do  much  to  the  head,  though,  it  being 
over-high  for  ever5anan  to  reach.  They  started  to 
stamp  at  the  feet.  Youngsters,  or  dodderers  with  clay- 
stems  in  their  mouths,  threw  seeds  in  fires  and  said, 


THE    MARKET-PLACE  213 

"Oh,  Hell!  Why  don't  those  fools  do  something  for 
the  country?  By  gosh,  let's  send  a  man! "  Once  in  an 
age  they  did,  but  little  House  of  Representatives'  face 
could  not  be  doused  all  clean  at  once. 

A  new  clean  race  was  starting  to  be  born.  Real 
changes  nevertheless  come  slow  where  all  men  have 
their  say,  and  so  it  was  reasonable  that  even  in  Septem- 
ber of  the  good  year  nineteen  sixteen  Holden  Gates 
should  be  the  alleged  chosen  of  Mapleton's  electorate 
for  the  lower  House  of  Congress. 

The  last  man  had  died  on  the  job.  It  being  in- 
cumbent to  pick  out  a  new  one  they  hit  upon  Gates  in 
informal  convention.  He  had  not  worked  for  it,  no 
indeed,  Vogel  gave  them  to  understand  that.  In  fact, 
it  was  required  of  the  latter  to  sound  his  partner  out, 
to  see  if  he  would  even  take  the  nomination.  It  seems 
he  would,  so  hastily  they  offered  and  slowly  and  reluc- 
tantly—  but  very  firmly  —  he  accepted  it.  It  was 
the  blood  offering  of  the  Old  Watch  to  a  man  they 
knew  would  carry  on  their  spirit  to  the  letter,  not 
ruining  a  home-town  or  a  district  for  some  old  country's 
sake.  The  delegates  had  been  congratulated  heartily 
by  Vogel.  All  of  which  the  Crier  duly  chronicled,  "a 
splendid;  unexpected  tribute  to  our  able  fellow-towns- 
man." Of  course,  the  bare  fact  was  that  Gates  himself 
had  labored  toward  this  very  thing  more  weeks  than 
there  are  months  in  the  year. 

The  Congressional  district  enclosing  Mapleton 
joined  up  three  loosely-settled  counties.  Hamlin, 
smallest,  was  the  key.  Since  the  others  rarely  agreed 
themselves  and  always  failed  to  patch  a  peace,  fruits 
of  the  fight  most  often  rested  with  the  least  of  them. 
So  it  was  this  time.  Gates'  party  held  the  first  con- 
ference, and  after  customary  deadlock  he  was  the  out- 
come.   At  the  last  he  was  preferred  unanimously,  bemg 


214  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

nominated  with  loud  acclaim  and  much  triumphant 
burning  of  the  Hon.  Holden's  own  cigars,  distributed 
one  to  a  man. 

Gates  was  a  splendid  figure  in  those  days,  puff- 
cheeked,  and  prosperous  and  proud.  To  those  of  worth 
he  was  a  fine  antithesis  of  rabblerout  and  mussy  mobs. 
His  hands  were  clean,  his  soul  was  whitewashed.  His 
nomination  was  accepted  comfortably  by  others  like 
himself;  was  swallowed  patiently  by  those  of  the 
middle-class  who  long  since  ceased  to  ripple  in  the 
pond  of  politics;  and  kicked  up  quite  a  furore  in  ye 
populace,  so  that  the  last  were  quite  as  solid  as  the 
first. 

The  former  uttered,  "Well,  this  only  shows  that  the 
country  will  be  safe.  You  take  no  chances  with  good 
men  like  Holden  Gates.  You  know  just  what  to  expect. 
Now  if  such-and-such  a  'fire-brand'  had  been 
chosen  .  .  ."; 

The  in-betweens,  "As  good  as  the  next  most  like. 
We  needn't  expect  anything  anyway"; 

But  the  last,  "We'll  be  hanged  if  we  see  another  one 
like  that  go  in.  Look  at  Gates!  Look  at  the  Fork! 
Ain't  they  enough  for  you?" 

They  should  really  have  been  ashamed  of  them- 
selves. Mr.  Bodeheaver  said  so  himself  when  he  had 
heard  them  talking  on  the  corner.  Nevertheless  they 
did  not  seem  to  be,  but  confidently  jangled  their  dinner- 
buckets  on  the  streets  and  talked  quite  freely  as  they 
met.  Labor  had  much  on  its  mind.  It  looked  as  if 
it  had  the  bit  well  in  its  teeth  at  last,  and  was  plunging 
ahead  —  to  what? 

Shortly  a  second  get-together  came,  the  other  party. 
It  encouraged  slight  interest  and  no  concern  to  that 
of  Gates,  for  the  latter 's  nomination  was  election.  Al- 
ready people  spoke  to  Mrs.  "Holden"  of  the  perfervid 


THE    MARKET-PLACE  215 

life  of  the  Capital,  as  fathers  retailed  to  her  husband 
of  likely  sons  they  owned,  with  clerical  ability.  Gates 
selected  a  larger  cigar,  delivery  November  first,  and 
they  agreed  that  Barbara  should  not  return  to  school. 
Mrs.  Gates  ordered  hats. 

There  was  opposed  to  Gates  a  very  different  type. 
He  was  good,  in  letters  of  gold,  one  W.  Makepeace 
Jenny,  a  favorite  of  Mannheim  County.  As  Gates' 
constituents  felt  safe  in  keeping  company  with  poli- 
ticians, so  had  these  others  trusted  to  a  pacifist.  It 
was  a  new,  unnecessary  word.  Bodeheaver  reckoned 
it  came  from  the  West.  The  candidate  cleared  up  their 
doubts  and  brought  a  long  interpretation  with  him. 
The  dictionary  had  made  of  him  an  "advocate  of 
p>eace,"  but  no  one  looked  to  him  to  fight  for  it.  Old 
Gates'  adherents  laughed. 

There  wasn't  much  variety  so  far  in  platforms. 
Gates  embodied  the  Grand  Old  Tissues;  Makepeace 
had  fetched  some  others,  furbished  up  to  look  like  new. 
Well-to-do  hugged  stomachs  ecstatically,  men  frowned 
and  thinkers  shuddered. 

Then  at  the  darkest  hour  over  the  skyline  of  the 
American  politician  rose  a  flare.  It  shot  a  spot-light  on 
the  face  of  thread-bare,  subsidized  issue;  it  showed 
the  new,  not  the  old;  it  had  life. 

Nobody  says  who  touched  this  spark  to  light,  but  in 
a  second-breath  it  flashed  in  speaking  characters  a 
quick,  tense  message:  "No  man's  labor  is  commodity. 
It  is  a  free-born  part  of  life,  his  life."  Some  closed 
their  eyes  from  choice  and  breathed,  "Impossible." 

But  others  sobbed  "Thank  God!"  and  looked  again. 
They  saw  men  living,  no  longer  but  by  bread  alone,  yet 
filling  out  good  days  more  as  the  Maker  might  have 
fashioned.  Soul-smashing  toil  was  not  the  end,  nor 
means,  nor  only  termination  of  their  road,  for  in-be- 


216  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

tween  were  happiness  and  homes  and  little  children. 
Nor  did  the  working  day  take  all,  with  at  its  close, 
"Prepare  thou  now  again!  For  the  morrow  is  already 
at  hand." 

Here  was  The  Chance.  Strong  gates  of  great,  dark 
shops  were  burst  apart  and  from  the  dust  and  foulness 
there  trooped  forth  a  flock  of  puny  figures,  drooping 
as  they  left  the  heat  or  cold,  pale  as  they  came  to  meet 
their  sun.    Where,  like  flowers,  they  warmed  to  life. 

The  hour  of  the  sunrise  was  due. 


XXXII 

Without  two  things  you  would  not  notice  Maugan 
Grubbs:  his  back  wore  a  hump;  his  nose  set  off  a  mole, 
large,  ugly.  Both  had  been  there  a  long  time.  His  dis- 
position, which  you  could  not  plumb  but  guessed,  was 
badly  warped,  3res,  cankered.  Deformed,  he  did  not 
relish  comeliness.  Broken-backed,  he  got  more  than 
attention.  He  attracted  votes,  which  was  well,  as  that 
was  precisely  what  they  kept  him  for.  He  worked 
on  the  poor,  for  the  rich.  He  certainly  hated  the  rich, 
but  the  poor  had  nothing  to  give.  Votes  were  the  wares 
of  his  trade. 

He  was  a  strange  old  fellow,  and  cutting  as  a  knife. 
Like  all  good  hunchbacks  he  owned  a  single  passion. 
Vogel  and  Gates  knew.  Ask,  and  they  would  tell  you 
it  was  Vogel  and  Gates,  oh,  yes,  and  politics.  Quiz  him, 
and  he  would  tender  you  a  squint-eyed  look  that  served 
you  well  for  all  your  trouble.  Also,  he  would  not  tell 
you  but  would  leave  you  all  a-shiver  from  his  queer, 
quick  glance.  Though  strange  and  repulsive  enough, 
you  say,  he  often  jounced  a  baby  when  the  father  held 
a  vote. 


THE    MARKET-PLACE  217 

This  was  Grubbs*  day,  and  with  the  passing  of  Sep- 
tember work  began.  He  went  at  things  with  relish 
born  of  some  success  and  much  experience.  He  circu- 
lated everywhere  among  the  poor,  fomenting  grudges 
here,  healing  another  there;  narrating  for  the  next  a 
chance  to  grab  a  dollar;  reminding  chaps  of  cash  long 
overdue  to  powers  both  knew;  cheap  cigars,  ranker 
arguments,  a  beer  or  two,  a  bit  of  money  slipped  to 
cautious  hands  by  one  yet  more  so.  It  was  old- 
womanish,  but  why  shelve  it  while  it  worked? 

And  for  a  while  your  voter  paid  the  compliment  of 
showing  them  this  valuation  was  all  right.  He  lighted 
their  stogies  and  rode  to  the  polls.  Generally  he 
walked  back.  He  always  forgot,  however,  when  the 
carriage  came  again. 

Two  old  parties  and  one  old  method:  same  result. 
Gnibbs'  mind  was  keen.  With  his  peculiar  cripple- 
energies  —  and  they  were  not  a  few  —  he  centered  on 
his  new  campaign.    His  eye,  however,  had  grown  dim. 

Often  he  worked  through  the  women.  There  were 
stories,  and  men  Grubbs  avoided,  but  mothers  didn't 
vote.  As  Vogel  and  Gates  often  said,  he  got  results. 
"Confound  it,  that's  what  you're  for!"  they  used  to 
tell  him.  "We  don't  care  how  you  do  it.  Don't  draw 
us  in,  that's  all."  They  gave  him  what  he  said  he 
needed,  didn't  ask  a  very  strict  account,  saw  that  his 
work  was  good  and  took  fair  care  of  him. 

It  was  a  tough  triumvirate.  Vogel  was  the  people; 
he  always  nominated  Holden  Gates.  Mr.  Gates  repre- 
sented his  firm;  and  Grubbs  delivered  the  popular 
vote.  To  date  it  had  never  failed.  Gates  was  promi- 
nent, Vogel  was  prosperous,  and  Grubbs,  the  imi- 
versally  despised,  still  worked. 

This  year  Grubbs  set  his  mind  to  try  a  coup.  That 
Jenny  fellow,  with  his  peaceful  propaganda,  was  dis- 


218  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

turbing  votes  a  bit.  Why  not  ring  in  the  Fork?  That 
was  Gates',  wasn't  it?  Gates  was  dubious.  Whatever 
else,  he  was  a  business  man  and  partly  knew  his  Fork. 
Vogel  was  enthusiastic.  He  added  his  word  to  Grubbs', 
and  the  latter  went  up  there.  He  was  gone  a  day  and 
a  night,  came  back  and  said  it  would  "go,  big! "  They 
were  dead,  didn't  care  how  they  voted,  bring  them  in. 
Of  course  the  hunkies  mostly  were  not  citizens.  But 
they  were  certainly  good,  usable  units.  Out  of  hand 
it  was  decided.  Gates  gave  them  all  a  half -hour  off 
one  day  in  late  September,  a  round  of  drinks  and  they 
were  registered  —  right.  The  State's  Attorney,  pressed 
for  his  opinion,  said  certainly  he  would  not  mind  their 
being  brought  to  Mapleton  the  night  before,  allowed 
to  vote  and  then  sent  home.  The  people's  prosecutor 
was  a  party  man.  He  was  also  on  Gates'  ticket,  this 
time  for  re-election.  Gates  sent  word  to  Larrabie,  de- 
clared holiday  with  pay  all  of  Election  Day,  and  sat 
back  in  his  office.  He  had  paid  them  money  well-nigh 
a  score  of  years.  He  recollected  all  they  owed  to  him 
and  felt  they  knew  it  too. 

About  the  time  that  Holden  Gates  tipped  back  in 
his  swivel  chair,  said  to  Vogel,  "Hermann,  it's  under  our 
hats.  We've  got  'em  cinched,"  and  bit  the  end  off  a 
fresh  cigar,  a  little  crowd  of  blowzy  men  built  up  a  fat- 
pine  fire  in  a  sooted  sheet-iron  heater.  The  Workers 
of  the  Woods  met  here.  Those  present  edged  some 
frayed  splint  chairs  and  nail-trimmed  boxes  a  little 
closer  to  the  stove,  bit  hard  on  sour  old  pipes  and 
got  to  work.  They  were  not  strangers,  and  they 
jKJoled  a  fund  of  experience  acquired  in  lives  and  years 
of  the  Fork,  also  something  of  brains  that  both  had  not 
entirely  dispelled. 

They  were  ripe  for  a  change.  You  could  visage  it  in 
the  old  Admirable  as  he  fidgeted  around;  you  could  feel 


THE    MARKET-PLACE  219 

it  all  in  Witzke's  nervousness;  there  was  more  evidence 
in  the  clasping  and  unfolding  of  Thorn's  hands;  it  was 
borne  in  to  you  by  the  eager,  quizing  eyes  of  Boddfish, 
as  he  sat  back  hard  in  his  wooden  chair,  examining  thfe 
others  as  he  drew  on  his  pipe  and  now  and  then  cursed 
between  teeth  when  he  took  the  fuming  briar  from 
his  mouth.  Pete  of  the  station  buckboard  was  there 
and  the  other  Pete,  he  of  the  escapades;  and  two  or 
three  more  who  do  not  matter,  as  they  were  simply 
audience.    They  were  listening  to  the  Admirable. 

The  Admirable  looked  mad.  When  he  talked  you 
were  quite  sure  he  was  mad.  Refined,  his  remarks 
consisted  of  denunciation. 

"Godalmighty,  as  if  it  wan't  enough  to  own  this 
place  and  run  it  like  a  shambles,  he  takes  this  running- 
start  for  Congress,  most  like  to  get  a  few  reforms  —  for 
them  as  doesn't  need  'em  —  and  then  he  gets  us  ready 
to  help  him  out  with  it.  Has  anybody  voted  since 
Hector  was  a  pup,  or  half  a  chance  to  do  it  either?  Let 
him  as  has  say  so." 

No  one  spoke. 

"And  now,  he  says  to  us,  'Here,  boys,  just  take  a 
holiday  on  me  next  month.  I'll  give  you  all  a  play- 
day'  —  'and  you  can  hand  me  all  your  votes.'  I  s'pose 
we  ought  to  smile,  and  say  'Thankee,  thankee  kindly, 
sir,  of  course  we'll  do  as  how  you  want  us.'  'Fine,'  says 
I"  —  and  the  old  man's  scorn  was  worth  while  —  "We 
will  —  not!    How  about  it?" 

There  was  a  rumbling  of  imqualified  assent.  It  was 
plain  they  agreed  as  to  mind;  they  looked  to  each  other 
for  plans. 

"Don't  know,  'm  sure,  what  sort  o'  platform  this 
here  Gates  is  runnin'  on,  but  to  me  it  doesn't  make  but 
mighty  little  difference. 

"Just    what's    a    platform,    anyway,    I'm    asking 


220  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

ye?  Don't  know?  I  didn't  either,  onct,  but  this 
here's  my  idea  now.  It's  somethin'  built  skimpy  to 
look  big;  laid  wide  and  thin,  spread  out,  you  might  say. 
Sometimes  they  paint  it  over  thick  with  promises  or 
whitewash  it  with  lies  so  you  can't  see  the  cracks  or 
holes,  and  don't  dast  notice  the  red-rot  that  honey- 
combs it.  Such  as  it  is  it's  builded  up  of  old,  cull,  loose- 
knot  limiber  —  you  know  the  kind  I  mean?  —  and 
painted  nice,  maybe.  The  platform's  legs  are  wormy, 
too,  but  usually  it  stands  a  couple  o'  months  or  so, 
holdin'  candidates  up  so  poor  ones  kin  see  the  show. 
And  afterwards  —  afterwards  they  kick  it  clean  to  little 
pieces,  or  else  it  falls  apart  itself  when  the  election's 
over  and  they've  one  an'  all  climbed  off. 

"No,  sir!  Old  stuff  don't  go  with  me.  There  ain't 
much  of  me  left,  right  now,  but  what  there  is  is  fight! 
clear  to  the  bone.  Answer  up!  Ain't  ye  that  a-way 
too?" 

And  they  all  yelled,  just  as  one,  "You  bet!" 

The  old  chap's  face  relaxed.  His  eyes  watered,  and 
a  tear  or  two  worked  down  his  gaunt,  lined  cheeks. 

"Boys,  I  haven't  ever  told  a  soul's  long  as  I've  been 
with  you.  Maybe  I  oughn't  now,  but  yet  I  think  I  will, 
tonight.  Can't  seem  to  hold  it  in  much  longer,  'sides, 
it  might  help  all  around.  I've  known  this  Gates  a  heap 
sight  longer'n  worser'n  any  of  you,  and  if  it  all  hadn't 
a  been  he  wouldn't  be  nmnin'  maybe  this  fall,  and  I 
wouldn't  be  wiltin'  away  up  here." 

"What  do  you  mean,  old  boy?  Spick  plain."  It  was 
Witzke,  and  the  others  nodded. 

The  broken  figure  for  a  moment  straightened  on  its 
box.  The  watery  eyes  imclosed  a  little  more,  the  lids 
winked  back  some  tears  and  the  lips  on  the  loose,  weak 
mouth  were  formed  an  instant  in  new  lines,  or  perhaps 
they  were  very  old. 


THE    MARKET-PLACE  221 

"It's  soon  told.  I  couldn't  make  it  long,  I  couldn't" 
—  slowly  —  "it  always  kind  of  gets  me. 

"A  good  bit  back,  thirty  year  come  this  fall  I  make 
it,  though  it  seems  most  all  my  life,  I  had  a  home  in 
Mapleton.  I  had  a  business,  too,  'bout  like  this,  and 
a  wife  —  but  I  can't  speak  much  of  her.  She  was 
wonderful,  best  in  the  world  I  thought,  and  I  was 
never  good  enough  by  half  to  even  touch  her  hand. 
She  was  young,  too,  much  younger  than  me,  and  /  was 
mighty  happy  in  our  life.  It  filled  my  da)rs  and  I  was 
satisfied.    I  thought  she  was. 

"We,  I,  had  money,  friends,  everythin'  I  needed  and 
I  thought  just  what  she  wanted,  too.  Gates  was  a  friend 
of  mine.  Sometimes  when  I  was  tired,  for  I  was  happy 
with  our  home  and  didn't  care  to  leave  it  much,  he  and 
his  wife  took  mine,  and  the  three'd  go  off  for  a  day  or 
an  evening.  I  was  glad  to  have  her  and  I  liked  Gates. 
He  wasn't  rich  then,  not  a  bit,  as  I  think  back  to  it 
now,  but  he  was  always  busy  and  I  called  him  a  right 
good  sort. 

"But  I  was  too  old  for  that  crowd,  and  I  never 
minded  when  they  all  went  off  and  left  me.  First 
Elma  —  that  was  my  wife  —  said  she  wouldn't  think 
of  going,  and  I  sort  o'  had  to  make  her.  But  after 
awhile  I  didn't  have  to  urge  so  much  and  they  all 
went  out  a  sight  more.  I  think  Mrs.  Gates  was  a  good 
woman  though  gettin'  vain,  for  she  had  been  a  poor 
girl  and  was  going  'round  with  a  different  set.  She 
always  seemed  fond  of  my  wife,  and  so  one  night 
when  Mr.  Gates  come  over  and  said  she  wanted  to  see 
Elma,  I  told  her  "go,"  of  course. 

"And  she  went.  I  was  reading  and  after  awhile  I 
must  have  dropped  away  for  a  little,  for  when  I  woke 
the  room  was  cold,  I  shivered  —  I  can  recollect  it  all 
so  plainly,  it's  burnt  in  heart-deep  —  and  got  up  to 


222  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

put  another  log  inside  the  grate.  When  I  did  I  looked 
at  the  clock.  It  was  'way  past  midnight.  I  waited 
'round  a  little  longer,  for  they'd  often  stayed  as  late 
before,  but  I  got  sort  of  uneasy  and  thought  to  my- 
self, 'I'll  just  run  over  to  Gates',  and  see  what's  keepin' 
her.' 

"It  was  just  across  the  street,  so  I  slipped  on  my 
shoes,  put  a  coat  across  my  shoulders  and  ran  over. 
The  house  was  dark.  'That's  queer,'  I  thought,  'where 
do  you  s'pose  they  are?'  But  I  went  up  the  steps  and 
knocked,  I  rang  the  bell,  too,  and  after  awhile  their 
servant  came,  looking  as  if  she'd  been  asleep.  'Where's 
Mrs.  Gates?'  I  says,  'and  Mr.  Gates?  Where's  every- 
body, anyway,  tonight?' 

"  'Mrs.  Gates?'  she  says,  'Mrs.  Gates?  Why,  Mrs. 
Gates  is  gone  for  a  week.  Mr.  Gates  hasn't  come  yet. 
He  ought  to  be  here  any  minute,  and  you  can  wait  if 
you  like.'  I  thought  I  would.  'Probably  though,'  I 
says  to  myself,  'they've  been  makin'  a  call  somewhere, 
playin'  a  joke  on  me.'  I  wanted  to  see  him  on  a  little 
business  anyway,  so  I  just  made  up  my  mind  to  wait. 

"After  awhile,  hours  it  seemed,  I  heard  somebody  on 
the  stairs.  I  went  out,  and  just  caught  sight  o'  Gates. 
He  was  in  a  dressin'  gown  and  slippers,  and  had  a 
smoky  lamp  in  one  hand.  'What's  the  trouble,  Dick?' 
he  called  out  sort  of  shaky. 

"  'Trouble!    Where  is  Ehna?' 

"  'Elma?  I  took  her  home  an  hour  or  so  ago.  Where 
you  been,  anyway,  Dick?     What's  up?' 

"That  was  too  much.  I  jumped  toward  him  and  the 
lamp  in  his  hand  almost  fell,  for  my  wife  ran  down  the 
stairs,  looked  sort  of  calmly  at  us  both  and  said,  'Now, 
Dick,  don't  make  a  fuss.  Go  home.  You  might  as 
well  know,  too,  that  I  never  really  cared  for  you  at  all. 
I'm  very  grateful  because  you  have  been  good  to  me, 


THE    MARKET-PLACE  223 

more  like  a  father'  —  oh!  how  that  hurt,  that  last  — 
'but  I  have  cared  much  more  for  Holden,  always!' 

"I  stumbled  at  the  staircase,  and  Elma  went  away. 
I  thmk  I  would  have  killed  hun,  then,  but  he  wasn't  so 
slow  to  show  a  gun. 

"The  rest  of  it  has  eaten  up  my  life,  my  life-time, 
but  it  is  quickly  told.  That  night  before  I  left  I  sold 
my  business  and  my  place  in  town,  and  only  asked  him 
to  be  good  to  her.  He  said  he  would.  Gk)d!  I  wonder 
where  she's  gone? 

"I  went  away.  My  heart  was  broken  and  I  did  not 
care  for  anything.  They  gave  out  both  of  us  had 
started  on  a  trip,  but  I  was  all  alone  that  day  and  so 
it  has  gone  on  for  pretty  near  to  twenty  years.  The 
little  money  that  I  took  from  Gates  was  quickly  lost. 
He  promised  to  send  on  the  rest.  I  heard  from  him, 
once,  after  that.  Said  he'd  invested  it,  my  money,  from 
my  mill.  He  put  it  in  a  bank.  He  wrote  the  bank  had 
failed.  I  didn't  know.  He  never  told  me  of  my  wife, 
my  Elma.  I  drifted  here.  I  guess  I'd  changed,  and  I 
got  work.  Nobody  knew.  I've  seen  him  up  here  since 
and  he  has  scrambled  up  as  far  as  I've  simk  down. 
I  didn't  think  he  even  knew  me.  Perhaps  he  did, 
but  didn't  grudge  the  bit  of  bread  I  earned  from  him. 

"In  those  old  days  I  had  a  wife,  I  had  a  home,  a 
business.  And  I  was  happy,"  he  rambled  on.  "Maple- 
ton  knew  Richard  Crimmins"  —  two  of  his  hearers  gave 
a  start  —  "and  honored  him,  for  he  had  money,  and 
a  business  and  he  owned  a  mill,  and  the  woods  at  .  .  ." 

"The  Fork!"  cried  Thorn  and  Boddfish,  for  they 
had  known  the  rest,  and  the  old  Admirable  had  just 
pieced  out  the  tale.  But  the  thread  in  the  loom  was 
almost  gone  and  the  old  man  was  drooping  now. 
Friendly  arms  reached  for  his  shoulders,  while  great 
red,  honest  hands  were  taking  his  and  drink  was  forced 


224  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

between  his  lips.  He  had  leaned  on  liquor  for  many 
years,  and  it  slowly  braced  him  now. 

Thorn  spoke.  "What  Rogers,  or  Crimmins,  has 
told  us  now  can  only  strengthen  our  minds  and  tighten 
our  grip  for  work  put  off  only  too  long.  I,  personally, 
can  think  of  only  one  sure  way  to  seek  our  ends.  We 
can  agree  with  him  as  to  the  building  of  their  platform. 
So  we  will  build  our  own.    We  must. 

"Can  you  think  of  a  man  to  shape  it  for  us,  to  keep 
the  same  himself  when  it  is  done?  A  man  who  is  one 
of  us,  lived  what  we  live,  felt  what  we  feel,  worked 
where  we  work,  yet  aimed  for  something  higher  and  is 
bigger  by  that  much?  Yes,  I  can  think  of  just  one 
such.  I  know  he  has  the  Fork  with  him.  He  may  not 
be  old  in  years,  but  he  has  got  our  goods! 

"I  would  suggest  that  none  of  what  has  gone  on 
here  tonight  be  given  out  at  present  but  that  we,  as 
delegates  of  the  United  Workers,  fulfill  our  duty  and 
make  our  recommendation  as  requested. 

"And,  to  my  mind,  the  one  best  recommendation 
is  a  remedy.  Let  each  of  us  write  down  the  name  of 
some  one  man  that  he  would  like  to  work  for,  whom  he 
feels  would  like  to  work  for  him,  who  is  of  him,  and 
will  always  be  for  him.    He  will  win,  I  know  it!" 

So  they  did  and  though  chirography  was  varied, 
when  Witzke  and  Cosmo  counted  things  over  the  sum 
of  the  writings  spelled  Johnson. 

The  meeting  adjourned. 


XXXIII 

Since  the  day  of  their  successful  foimding  the 
United  Workers  of  the  Woods  and  Mill  had  had  some 
time  for  organizing.    More,  they  had  pioneered  well. 


THE    MARKET-PLACE  225 

There  was  little  secrecy  at  first,  and  some  who  helped 
at  preparation  had  briefly  gone  forth  from  the  small 
board  shacks.  They  left  the  Fork  to  settle  elsewhere, 
and  took  their  message  with  them. 

The  cry  that  went  out  from  the  wooded  highlands 
grew  until  it  spread  far  down  the  valleys  and  even  to 
the  quiet  places,  one  man  here  and  still  another  there. 
They  saw  that  it  was  good,  indeed,  far  stronger  than 
men  had  ever  hoped,  and  gradually  there  shaped  the 
slogan:  "labor  for  labor,  work  for  the  man  who 
WILL  WORK  FOR  YOU."  The  day  of  the  harvest  was 
close  at  hand,  and  they  thought  they  had  foimd  a 
reaper. 

But  when  they  came  to  Johnson  with  this  tale, 
they  were  very  much  nearer  failing  than  starting. 
He  was  bewildered  and  surprised,  of  course,  after  the 
usual  fashion:  he  laughed  at  them  and  then  was  sober. 
He  was  young  and  untrained  and  he  felt  it  more  than 
they,  for  in  the  darkened  workshop  of  the  world 
twenty-five  shoulders  a  hod  with  not  more  effort  than 
sixty. 

They  took  no  one  of  his  excuses.  They  snowed  him 
under  with  urging.  And  Cosmo  Thorn  was  there,  and 
talked  persistently;  while  Witzke  fumed;  and  Bodd- 
fish  coaxed;  and  finally  to  the  tune  of  Hal  Jenkins' 
thundering  and  earnest  pleas,  he  gave  completely  in. 
"Johnson,  boy,  it  must  be  youl"  they  said.  "You 
are  our  one  investment." 

And  Johnson  saw  they  meant  just  that,  so  he  finally 
did  as  he  had  wished  to  all  along.  His  life  had  been 
a  chance,  a  wish,  why  not  attempt  a  crazy  shot? 

Both  Gates  and  Vogel  ceased  from  needing  Johnson. 
No  more  did  the  latter  want  them.  They  had  expected 
a  poor  lawyer,  and  had  engendered  a  worse  candidate. 
Gates  grunted  out  "Ungrateful  ass,"  and  Vogel  just 


226  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

said,  "Fool!"  To  them  of  course  it  was  all  a  joke, 
"natura  non  fecit  saltum"  as  Vogel  aptly  put  it. 

It  was  sufficiently  real  to  him.  His  leaving  them  was 
simple.  He  was  netting  a  scratch-living  there. 
In  fact,  he  had  so  long  been  a  part  of  Vogel,  Gates 
and  Busby  that  he  had  felt  some  time  it  would  not 
serve  much  longer.  They  were  working  up  one  way, 
he  had  grown  out  another.  It  was  good  time  to  go. 
He  moved  his  worldly  truck  to  Dave's. 

One  lamented  his  passing.  On  his  last  morning  there 
the  dun  old  harridan  who  tried  half-heartedly  to  clean 
the  office,  without  at  all  succeeding,  was  still  at  work 
when  he  came  to  get  his  things.  Probably  it  was  pay- 
morning,  for  then  she  was  assiduous  in  spilling  baskets 
and  hiding  dirt.  The  way  of  her  cleansing  was  one 
poor  subterfuge  after  another.  The  gift  of  the  job  was 
Busby's  and  he  had  let  her  shift  along.  For  one  thing, 
she  did  not  touch  his  stacks  and  piles  and  varied,  valued 
muss.    Perhaps  he  owned  a  fellow-feeling. 

Glimpsing  his  preparations,  she  hurried  on  to  John- 
son's desk  to  ask  him  all  about  it.  Yes,  he  was  quitting 
them.  No,  he  was  not  going  out  of  Mapleton,  but  he 
was  leaving  here.  Yes,  no  doubt  for  good,  no  doubt. 
The  messy  old  woman  strayed  about.  She  came  back 
near  his  desk.  She  looked  troubled,  and  her  eyes  were 
wet,  more  watery  than  usual  above  the  dusty  spectacles. 

"Mr.  Andrew,  'fore  ye  go,  I  will  say  this:  I  wish 
you  wasn't.  Ye'r  the  only  one  as  had  a  word  o'  kind- 
ness for  a  poor  old  fool  like  me.  Couldn't  never  stand 
those  two  old  birds  back  there"  —  a  hand  jerked 
toward  the  partners'  private  office  —  "and  them  two 
easy-gabbing  flyabouts  hits  me  all  wrong.  As  for 
that  spattered  ink-well"  —  a  dusty  finger  in  the  way 
of  Busby  —  "I'd  like  to  see  the  last  o'  that  old 
cuss  for  good." 


THE    MARKET-PLACE  227 

She  sighed. 

"My  God!  I  ain't  come  near  to  feel  as  bad  since 
Elder  Parsons  died.  He  used  to  give  me  apples  off 
his  trees,  for  Tom,  the  boy  I  had  that  weakened  in  the 
lungs.  Old  Elder  used  to  give  me  apples  for  him.  I 
got  two  dollars  when  I  helped  to  lay  him  out." 

A  pure  tear  passed  along  her  cheek,  and  was  stopped 
by  a  dirty  hand. 

William  caught  up  to  him  when  he  had  got  outside. 
"Good-bye,  Mr.  Johnson,  good-bye  —  and"  (the  boy 
whispered  it)  "I  hope  you  win!  Though  probably 
you  won't."  As  for  dear  old  "Busy"  Busby,  he  merely 
peeked  up  from  behind  his  stacked-high  work  en- 
trenchments, added,  "Don't  know  how  any  good'll 
come  of  it.  Fine  chance  to  waste  your  time,"  grunted, 
and  was  gone.  He  was  busy,  he  didn't  have  time  to 
care  whether  the  country  went  in  for  paper-backed 
peace  tracts,  worked  its  men  on  a  sixteen-hour  scale,  or 
sucked  on  the  eternal  lollj^op  of  graft.  He  was  a 
native-reared  American;  and  germs  grew  up  by  night 
among  the  foreign-born. 

The  campaign  progressed  on  it  tri-headed  way.  The 
two  old  parties  raised  much  issue.  Judged  solely  by 
the  third,  they  had  presented  on  their  stage  three 
"isms":  pacifism,  hyphenism  and  a  bad  third,  patriot- 
ism. The  latter,  though,  was  largely  raised  by  the 
very  last  of  the  parties.  It  was  not  a  hydra  stirred  to 
life  by  any  of  the  rest.  "Laissez  jaire,"  said  they, 
"because  ihe  world  is  in  the  boiling  pot  we  do  not 
need  to  touch  the  fire.  We  do  not  like  the  fire;  ergo, 
the  fire  will  not  touch  us."    Meanwhile  it  did. 

Lines,  though,  were  queerly  drawn.  You  could  not 
tell  exactly  where  your  fellow  stood.  You  saw  the 
sanguinary  blast  of  War.  It  was  the  third  year,  good 
people  said  the  last.  The  national  diaphragm  had  been 
disturbed,  the  heart  of  their  country  struck  faster. 


228  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

All  the  world  trembled.  It  was  not  by  you,  or  near 
you,  it  was  of  you.  The  country  was  divided,  and 
as  the  country  so  also  Hamlin  County.  It  was  only  the 
melee  of  red  blood  and  white.  Men  of  business 
thought,  but  quickly  shrugged  their  shoulders  and 
passed  on.  Not  so  the  rabble.  They  gathered  together 
in  many  places  and  where  their  little  houses  would  not 
hold  them  all  they  met  in  a  back  room  of  Dave's,  or  at 
the  "Farmers'  Rest  Cafe"  across  the  street.  With 
biting  drink  and  stronger  words  they  struck  the  light 
pine  tables  such  conscientious  blows  as  made  good  beer 
mugs  rattle.  It  looked  as  though  they  had  a  candi- 
date. The  candidate,  astounded,  had  found  himself  a 
party.  It  was  born  in  mid-summer,  might  die  in  No- 
vember, but  all  the  while  it  grew.  There  was  even  an 
organization,  honest  but  complete. 

Neither  rested  much.  They  took  a  new  breath,  spat 
on  their  hands,  got  a  fresh  hold,  and  went  on. 

There  was  speaking.  Gates,  prompted  by  Vogel 
and  hotly  backed  by  Grubbs  and  his,  forebore  to  take 
much  part  or  stock  in  this.  Let  others  get  tired  out. 
The  fire  was  sizzling.  You  could  feel  it  all  around,  but 
the  warmth  had  not  yet  reached  him.  He  did  one  night 
address  a  small  meeting  of  friends  on  our  new  national 
pride.  As  no  one  asked  what  it  was,  he  managed  very 
well.  Had  such  a  one,  Vogel  would  no  doubt  have 
filled  the  breech.  Gates  was  the  supposed  possessor  of 
much  brain.  Labor  styled  him  a  child  of  luck,  but 
only  the  rich  man's  kind.  When  people  met  and  Gates 
was  there,  Vogel  stood  by  too. 

Johnson  did  not  spare  himself,  though  never  sanguine 
as  his  backers.  They  were  earnest  and  even  optimistic. 
Johnson  had  few  illusions,  and  some  hope.  He  used  his 
right  hand  lavishly  and  spoke  somewhat  from  boxes. 
He  did  well  and  had  applause.    Jenkins  was  always 


THE    MARKET-PLACE  229 

egging  him  on,  and  Johnson  was  strong  in  small  home- 
steads.   He  intended  a  bigger  effort. 

If  Gates  steeled  himself  toward  the  election  in  terms 
of  ennui,  not  so  his  rival  on  another  side.  With  all  the 
empty  eagerness  of  the  high-prided  zealot,  Mr.  Jenny 
was  ever  here  and  there,  a-flutter  from  township  to 
township,  spreading  the  gospel  of  "peace  without  mirth; 
good  will  to  any"  —  "any  with  votes,"  old  Boddfish 
said. 

One  day  at  noon  good  Jenny  elected  to  speak  on 
national  offense  to  they  of  the  Mapleton  work-shops. 
He  had  been  working  the  other  towns.  No  one  here 
had  heard  him,  and  there  was  a  crowd.  Mr.  Bode- 
heaver  was  present,  having  with  much  inward  shudder- 
ing he  was  afraid  to  show  worked  through  a  crowd 
of  sweaty  workers  just  out  of  dirty  shops.  But  as  he 
said  when  he  got  there,  "Here  was  a  man  as  did  your 
heart  real  good  to  see." 

No  Jenny  up  to  date  had  been  to  Congress,  and  it  is 
difficult  to  see  how  this  high-infidel  of  preparation  had 
made  successfully  such  strides  of  vesture  in  walking 
toward  those  hallowed  halls.  He  was  faithful  indeed 
to  the  sacred  Prince  Albert.  He  had  a  white  necktie 
clamped  under  sharp-descending  collar-points.  He 
still  ran  true  in  chop-like  Congress  whiskers,  full-blown, 
ultra-ministerial  and  free,  that  dropped  sufficiently  low 
down  to  make  that  necktie  a  party  of  the  second  part. 
He  was  as  good  as  a  leaf  of  the  Congressional  Record. 

He  was  also  just  a  little  late,  but  there  were  esti- 
mable people  of  the  town  who  met  him  at  the  station 
and  rushed  him  thence  with  all  alacrity.  Despite  that 
he  came  to  them  blown  of  wind  and  red  of  face.  The 
crowd  good-naturedly  had  let  him  through. 

"Make  way  for  Makepeace,"  "Hi,  there,  Jen,  old 
boy,"  with  other  friendly  cries  announced  him. 


230  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

The  pufiing  candidate  was  set  upon  the  box  that 
served  as  platform.    He  introduced  himself. 

"Good  people."  Waves  of  applause.  Loud-toned 
whisper,  "  'Good  people/  me  eye!" 

"Good  people,  I  know  you  are  here,  actuated  by  a 
common  impulse  and  noble  purpose.  I  feel  it  in  me. 
That  you,  busy  working  people  of  this  day  and  age, 
should  steal  a  moment  of  your  single  hour  at  noon 
to  hear  the  tidings  that  I  bring  to  you  augurs  most 
well  for  the  future  of  this  country.  And  tlie  future 
of  your  country  is  your  future,  my  friends.  Surely 
not  even  our  friends  on  the  other  side  would  attempt 
denial  of  that.  It  is  a  law  of  economics,  and  a  con- 
comitant of  labor." 

Voice  from  the  crowd,  "Hey,  get  busy,  or  get 
down ! " 

"Yes,  yes,  I  am  coming  to  that,  my  friend.  Grant 
me  but  a  moment.  Ahem !  As  I  see  so  many  interested 
countenances  upturned  today,  toward  the  platform,  I 
am  reminded  of  a  little  story  I  heard  the  other  day, 
A  man  was  working,  ploughing  a  field  not  many  miles 
from  your  beautiful  city,  and  he  happened  to  turn  up 
a  stone.  It  was  not  a  very  big  stone,  but  he  picked  it 
up,  and  threw  it  over  the  fence  into  another  field  that 
belonged  to  him.  So  someone  who  happened  to  see  him 
do  it  spoke  to  him  and  said,  'Why,  Si,  why  did  you  do 
that?  Ain't  that  your  field,  too?'  So  Si  said,  'Yes, 
but  I  don't  plough  that  till  next  year.' 

"My  friends,  it  seems  to  me  that  this  little  story 
illustrates  in  most  graphic  form  a  very  great  truth." 

"What?     Out  with  it!" 

"Why,  that  truth  is  that  we  may  very  well  put  off 
till  another  day,  or  another  year,  things  that  vex  us 
today.  There  are  mussy  men  around  us,  agitators 
/  call  them,  who  say  you  are  not  satisfied:  you  want 


THE    MARKET-PLACE  231 

a  change,  that  you  wish  this,  and  need  that.  My 
friends,  you  have  a  wonderful  opportunity  for  good 
and  you  should  be  happy  to  put  your  trust  in  hands 
that  will  take  real  care  of  it,  for  you.  Take  no  thought 
for  dangers  that  will  never  arise  —  they  never  have. 
You  are  alive,  or  you  would  not  be  here  today.  I  hope 
I  have  made  myself  plain." 

A  voice,  "You  bet!" 

"This  is  a  grand,  good  country.  It  is  at  peace,  and 
if  we  do  nothing  but  hope  for  peace  we  shall  surely  find 
it.  It  is  a  wonderful  country.  It  is  one  of  the  largest 
countries  in  the  world  today.  It  has  great  oceans  on 
each  side  of  it,  and  many,  many  people.  Good  people, 
too,  the  best  people  of  God's  earth.  I  have  abiding 
faith  in  the  common  people,  and  I  feel  sure  they  will 
do  nothing  to  change  it  in  any  way.  We  are  well 
off  now.  Let  well  enough  alone.  Why  go  out  of  your 
way  to  prepare  for  anything  that  has  never  hurt  us? 
Surely,  it  never  will.  I  know  you  are  satisfied  now,  and 
I  am  going  to  keep  you  just  the  same.  But  you  must 
help  me.' 

"Sure."  A  shuffling  of  feet,  and  an  accompaniment 
of  dinner-pails. 

"One  moment  more.  The  greatest  need  of  the  work- 
ing man  today  is  work,  more  work.  We  will  give  it  to 
him  .   .   ." 

Loud  voice,  from  in  front,  "It  ain't.  Less  work, 
less  politics,  more  money.  Give  those  to  us,  and  you've 
done  something.    Am  I  right,  boys?" 

"Right  as  a  rivet,  Hal!"  "Well  done,  old  boy." 
"Time's  up,  Jen!' 

Just  then,  to  be  sure,  the  first  of  the  five-minute 
whistles  blew  and  a  hard-used  piece  of  breadcrust 
went  through  the  air  to  mat  itself  in  the  good  left  wing 
of  the  worthy  Makepeace's  whiskers. 


232  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

"Too  proud  to  pipe,"  one  grimy  fellow  put  it  as 

they  turned  their  backs  on  politics  and  went  to  work. 

Perceiving  a  period,  Mr.  Jenny  retired  in  good  order. 


XXXIV 

Barbara  looked  again.  No,  not  in  her  many  years 
could  she  commence  to  recall  the  real  masses  of  people 
that  surged  uneasily  about  the  stodgy  streets  of  sober 
Mapleton.  All  day  they  had  been  straggling  in,  and 
the  night  train  was  due  with  more.  It  gave  her  a 
strange,  uneasy  feeling,  and  since  she  did  not  under- 
stand it  she  scarcely  liked  it.  It  was  the  night  before 
—  the  eve  of  the  election;  of  the  trying  of  a  people's 
strength;  of  what? 

Loud,  coarse  voices  reached  in  from  the  street  to 
the  little  side  porch  of  her  home.  Though  softened  a 
whit  by  distance,  the  sounds  and  dimming  echoes  were 
not  more  pleasant  to  her  ears,  and  she  shuddered 
slightly  at  the  noisiness  of  bourgeois  fun.  It  was 
the  beginning  of  a  holiday  and  the  citizens,  like  sturdy 
Romans,  made  merry  on  the  eve  of  great  occurrences. 
Motives  of  the  day  were  not  the  same,  a  country's 
fate  merely  to  be  wrestled  out  instead  of  puny  lives. 
There  was  singing  and  showing  of  teeth,  and  now  and 
then  an  officer  had  recourse  to  his  stick  to  soften  strong 
beliefs. 

Ah,  what  has  come  to  Mapleton?  No  more  a  haven 
for  the  weary,  the  happy,  quiet  haunt  of  tout  and  idler, 
time-spendthrift  and  gossip.  Another  Eldorado  is 
hastening  away.  Its  lazy  air  of  drowsiness  is  shrinking 
fast,  not  only  on  tonight.  Traditional  insouciance  is 
all  but  gone.    A  sleeper,  stirred  at  last,  has  turned  up 


THE    MARKET-PLACE  233 

on  his  back,  has  stretched,  pronounced  a  couple  gapes, 
and  finally  made  to  rise.  Where  now  tonight  the  silly, 
talking  lot  of  men  on  old  Dave's  steps,  their  vis-a-vis, 
that  loafing  mess  of  boys  which  once  was  draped  across 
the  corner  opposite?  Their  microcosm  is  a  vanished 
joy.  Fresh  generations  cannot  heir  to  creaking  chairs 
and  wheezy  pipes  across  the  street.    Sad. 

Another  old,  worn  callous  on  the  nation  has  felt  the 
life-pulse  of  its  country.  Blood  stirs  again,  and  red 
corpuscles  run  amuck. 

Changed,  indeed,  thought  Barbara,  as  Ezra  Bode- 
heaver  hastened  by,  worming  through  the  crowd,  elbow- 
ing sometimes  too,  forcing  a  lane  for  himself  and  a 
staff  with  a  banner  awave  from  its  top.  Other  old 
conservatives  were  out  at  sea  among  the  throng  and 
just  across  the  street  was  Mr.  Busby,  on  the  threshold 
of  his  office  door,  his  hand  on  the  knob  as  the  poor 
old  chronic  wavered  betwixt  town  politics  and  duty. 
How  blithsome  to  bide  with  one  were  t'other  dear 
charmer  away.  And  this  is  the  night  of  the  torch-light 
parade.  The  outcome  is  all  too  patent  —  Busby  goes  in. 

Office  lights  downstairs  flashed  on.  Barbara  saw. 
How  many  long  weeks  were  lost  since  the  tiny  window 
above  had  been  warmed  by  a  flame  at  night.  She  had 
seen  him  very  little  since  the  Club.  She  had  known  of 
his  selection  by  the  labor  force,  of  course.  Her  father 
for  a  while  was  very  full  of  it. 

Andrew  had  never  returned.  She  could  see  reasons, 
no  lack.  Yet  when  they  sometimes  met,  to  speak  so 
briefly,  was  there  some  nuance  in  the  way  he  felt  toward 
her?  Doubts  wrestled  in  her  own  girl-heart,  where 
many  things  arise  that  cannot  satisfactorily  be  sent 
away.  But  they  had  been  together  for  so  long  and  now 
—  this,  this  was  hard. 

The  great  house  was  lonesome,  and  she.    A  tear 


234  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

crept  down  her  cheek  and  Barbara  was  unashamed. 
She  missed  him,  the  light  from  the  poor  little  window 
too.  Of  course  she  could  never  have  told  him  that  — 
how  could  she?  All  women  answer  no  —  but  it  was 
dark  enough  so  that  she  failed  to  mind  confessing  to 
herself.    She  would  have  soundly  lectured  him. 

If  he  would  only  come.  She  was  for  him,  always. 
How  can  men  be  so  blind,  unless  they  wish  it? 

It  seemed  quiet,  terribly  so.  It  was  not,  for  beyond 
the  fence  the  world  flowed  by,  and  played,  and  shouted, 
and  cursed,  and  sang,  and  found  in  tonight  enough  to 
enjoy. 

Suddenly  there  rose  a  shouting,  and  promenaders 
left  the  sidewalk  for  the  street.  Cries  of  "Yeh!  There 
he  goes."  "What's  the  matter  with  Johnson?"  and 
"Hi,  there,  Andy!  How  are  you,  boy?"  broke  in  upon 
her  silence. 

Impulsively  the  girl  stepped  to  the  rail.  A  rather 
senile  vehicle  was  passing  up  the  street,  its  coming 
heralded  by  shouts  from  all  along.  It  passed  below  the 
street  lamp  on  her  corner.  Yes,  in  the  front  of  the 
rickety,  lumbering  equipage  sat  Andy,  his  face  confi- 
dent and  pleased  as  he  responded  to  the  crowd.  By 
him,  and  piling  in  behind,  were  Jenkins,  "Hub"  Sanders 
too,  and  some  strange,  rough-seeming  men,  with  —  yes, 
that  queer,  poor  fellow  from  the  Fork.  What  was  it 
Andrew  said  they  called  him?  "The  Admirable,"  that 
was  it.  He  looked  even  stranger  and  older  tonight, 
but  his  face  was  ashine  and  he  yelled  to  the  horses 
that  dragged  them  along. 

Even  he  had  caught  it,  thought  the  girl.  Then, 
"caught  what?"  she  asked  herself  and  answered,  "I'm 
going  to  find  out!" 

Her  mother,  undeterred  by  the  election  —  so  many 
persons  voted  nowadays,  to  be  sure  —  but  inwardly 


THE    MARKET-PLACE  235 

exalted  by  the  shadow  of  the  capital,  was  being  fitted 
for  a  Bridge.  Barbara  ran  in.  "Mamma,  Mamma! 
I'm  going  down  to  tell  Jerry  to  get  the  car  and  take 
me  downtown." 

"What?  what!  You'll  do  no  such  thing.  Tonight 
of  all  nights.  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing.  (There, 
there,  Marie,  no  tighter.  It's  all  right,  all  right,  I  tell 
you! )    I  wouldn't  think  of  it." 

"Father  is  down  at  the  office.  I'm  going  to  get  him 
and  go  to  the  speaking." 

"My  dear  child,  I  would  much  prefer  to  have  you 
stay  at  home." 

"But  ladies  do  go,  over  in  England.  I  know  they 
do.    They  speak,  too.    I  shouldn't  mind  the  crowd." 

"Well,  well,  I  can't  wait  to  talk  with  you  about  it. 
I'm  so  tired  getting  ready  for  that  Bridge.  (A  little 
more  just  here,  Marie.  But  not  too  much.  Be  care- 
ful.) Then  I  suppose  you  must.  But  come  home 
early,  and  see  to  it  your  Father  does  too." 

"I  will,  dear  Mother.  Hope  you  enjoy  the  party. 
Good-night!" 

Old  Jerry  appeared  in  a  second,  broadly  speaking, 
and  Barbara  was  in  the  car  in  less.  "Down  to  the 
Post  Office,  Jerry." 

"Yes,  Miss." 

The  car  swung  out  the  drive  and  passed  through  the 
gate  to  the  street.  Jerry  stepped  on  the  siren,  but  al- 
most overran  a  portly  gentleman,  who  curved  himself 
concavely  to  defeat  the  impact. 

Once  in  the  street  they  had  to  weave  their  way  about 
as  they  crawled  downtown,  grazing  on  the  one  side  a 
hay-rack  empty  of  the  staple  but  loaded  down  with 
people,  and  almost  touching  on  the  other  a  carry-all 
of  bouncing  girls  and  rustic  swains,  all  in  from  up- 
country  for  the  parade  and  speechifying.    It  was  an 


236  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

animated  scene  and  Barbara  missed  little  as  Jerry 
brought  her  near  the  business  quarter. 

As  there  were  some  swarms  of  visitors  and  natives 
near  the  Court  House,  there  were  black  masses  here. 
With  difficulty  the  driver  took  the  girl  up  Main  Street 
to  the  Office.  By  dint  of  tight  driving  and  long-drawn 
sounding  of  his  horn  Jerry  found  a  space  not  too  re- 
mote, and  left  to  get  the  mail. 

Barbara  had  had  to  get  away,  off  into  the  noise  and 
the  people,  the  life  that  buzzed  and  pulsed  and  soimded 
all  about.  She  was  almost  as  anxious  to  get  herself  out, 
for  the  uproar  was  harsh  in  her  ears  and  there  was 
much  that  was  not  pleasant  to  the  sight.  Down  by 
the  bridge  a  bulk  of  people  was  streaming  Dave's  way 
from  the  station.  A  gay,  bright-colored  throng  it  was 
and  even  now,  so  far  away,  one  ear-marked  of  the 
woods.  The  evening  train  had  got  in  from  the  Fork, 
a  shoving  pack  of  real  humanity  had  been  disgorged 
from  its  caboose  and  dumped  from  loaded  flat-cars  on 
the  town.  The  town  would  willingly  have  turned  them 
back,  but  chance  complaining  burghers  were  not 
noticed.  A  huge  hand  held  the  woodhicks  and  it 
pushed  them  on,  on  over  the  town  where  tomorrow, 
probably,  they  would  register  their  wishes  and  make 
their  voices  heard  in  the  chorus  of  the  coimtry  all 
about. 

A  happy  touch  of  reminiscence  caught  the  girl  as 
men  surged  past  the  wooden  bridge  and  neared  her. 
She  saw  Pete's  flannel  mackinaw  6r  Hans'  green  hat 
and  white  wool  socks,  Black  Charley's  small  plush 
cap  and  Oley's  high,  black  boots  with  nails  upon  the 
soles,  with  here,  far  in  the  van,  a  great,  wide-chested 
chap  whose  face  was  wreathed  in  crimson  whiskers,  his 
bull  neck  carelessly  encased  in  red  bandanna.  On  they 
came. 


THE    MARKET-PLACE  237 

Here  and  there  a  fat,  black  bottle  left  a  pocket  and 
found  a  mouth;  then  more  mouths.  There  was  shout- 
ing and  whistling  and  loud  guffaws,  and  the  air  was 
sounding  with  many  words  it  did  no  good  to  hear. 

The  girl  in  her  car  shuddered,  and  looked  inside 
the  Office  for  her  driver.  He  was  half-way  to  the 
window  in  a  line  which  hardly  moved.  Men  still  came, 
men  and  half-formed  youths,  with  here  and  there  a 
woman's  figure  and  a  waster's  face,  some  garish  cloth- 
ing on  a  hard-used  form,  the  seeking  visage  of  the 
street.  What  part  had  she,  herself,  in  all  of  this? 
What  part,  indeed?  What  share  had  anyone?  To 
whom  the  credit  for  the  swarm  that  still  advanced' 
with  warming  cries  and  gradually  augmented  roar? 

Come  opposite  to  Dave's,  some  broke  and  ran  to 
gain  first  place  upon  the  other  side.  Bright,  flaring 
lights  caught  Barbara's  eyes  as  she  turned  to  see  that 
way.  A  sluggish  stream  went  in  and  out  a  pair  of 
swinging  doors.  There  were  square,  small  mirrors  in 
them  and  more  than  a  single  plaid-coated  chap  paused 
for  an  instant  to  size  up  his  liquored,  flame-shot  face 
as  he  passed  in  to  add  yet  more  to  the  searing  fuel  of 
their  night. 

As  she  turned,  a  figure  shot  from  the  door.  A  strong 
arm  and  a  leather  foot  were  back  of  it,  and  many  a 
hand  reached  out  to  shove  the  reeling  form  before  it 
reached  the  ditch,  and  fell.  The  young  girl  looked 
away. 

Along  her  side  the  jacks  from  the  Fork  came  opposite 
the  car.  She  saw  one  fellow  speak  to  a  girl  and  another 
man  reach  out  to  take  him  by  the  throat,  to  choke 
him  just  a  second  before  he  gave  the  blow.  The  face 
of  that  girl  had  flushed,  and  she  tried  to  get  away 
from  all  the  crowd  that  blocked  her  in.  Barbara  was 
young  but  she  was  brave,  impulsive.    She  leaned  from 


238  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

her  seat  as  if  to  get  that  other  girl's  attention.  The 
girl  did  not  see,  but  a  hand  hairy  and  black,  dirt- 
caked  and  bruised  by  work,  came  toward  her  from 
the  mass.    A  voice  cried  out, 

"Ah,  there,  Mary!  Mighty  gay  night  for  such  as 
you  with  boobs  like  us  about.    Give  us  a  kiss,  eh?" 

The  girl  recoiled  as  the  hand  advanced,  and  it  was 
very  near  her  when  a  stooping,  ugly  brute  pitched  in 
from  out  of  the  ruck  of  them,  twisted  the  hand  so  it 
dropped  away,  and  left  a  howling,  cursing  fellow  in  the 
mob.  The  squat  one  hopped  to  the  edge  of  the  car, 
then  finished  by  giving  a  kick  in  the  face  that  snarled 
and  was  spitting  back. 

"Oh,  Grubbs,  don't!     Please  don't!"  cried  the  girl. 

The  Quasimodo  got  ready  for  the  return  attack  and 
the  crowd,  fast  gathering,  roared  up  its  benediction. 
Some  of  the  shouts  were  of  Barbara's  beauty  and  she 
was  faint  with  their  coarseness;  others  championed 
the  swearing,  unfortunate  one,  who  was  coming  on 
again.  There  were  a  few,  fairer,  who  cried  for  Grubbs 
and  shouted, 

"That's  the  stuff,  Hunchy!  Hand  it  to  him  good. 
Give  him  hell!" 

Before  it  arrived  Jerry  came,  and  since  he  was 
enough  of  a  man  to  proceed  for  once  without  orders 
they  started  rapidly.  One  or  two  got  struck  as  they 
went,  while  Grubbs,  still  on  the  running-board, 
repelled  effectually  with  one  free  foot  a  stiff  departing 
rush  from  the  breeder  of  their  trouble. 

Barbara  groped  for  something  to  say,  and  when  she 
tried  to  speak  her  thanks  the  stooping  figure  was  no 
longer  there.  Jerry  turned  for  orders  and  gave  the 
mail  to  Barbara.  A  copy  of  the  Crier  was  the  price  of 
their  rencontre. 

Mr.    Gates  was  fuming  by  the  office  —  "Where  had 


THE    MARKET-PLACE  239 

she  been;  he  had  been  waiting;  Vogel  was  ready;  the 
parade  was  starting;"  much  beside.  Hermann  Vogel 
came  running  down  the  steps  and  both  were  in  the 
car  in  half-a-jiffy. 

Across  from  Gates'  mansion,  fronting  the  Court 
House  square,  was  a  platform.  Normally  it  smacked 
of  dry  goods  boxes  and  rough  lumber  mixed  with 
scantling,  but  tonight  it  was  covered  with  red,  white  and 
blue,  and  there  were  chairs  with  several  ministers.  It 
was  irregular,  but  Mrs.  Gates  wouldn't  know  in  time  to 
prevent,  so  Barbara  attained  the  platform  with  the 
men.  She  found  a  small  chair  for  herself,  the  lawyers 
being  generally  preoccupied,  and  placed  it  slightly 
to  the  rear.  Several  others  sat  just  forward,  so 
that  she  was  not  left  conspicuous,  though  able  to 
enjoy. 

She  heard  the  complaint  of  the  slide  trombone,  the 
whine  of  some  straggling  reeds,  and  the  parade  was  in 
the  offing.  It  passed  the  office  of  Gates  &  Vogel,  and 
came  on  fast.  It  was  in  two  parts:  i.  The  Mapleton 
Jubilee  Band;  2.  the  Young  Men's  Gates  Club.  The 
Band  was  "augmented"  tonight.  There  were  twenty 
and  they  made  a  good,  strong  showing.  The  Club  had 
twice  as  many.  The  Reverend  Sykes,  by  Mr.  Gates, 
was  fain  to  rub  his  hands  and  say,  "A  welcome  sight. 
A  wholesome  spectacle," 

The  marchers  approached  four-abreast.  Torches 
flared  with  unadulterated  kerosene,  while  rank  black 
smoke  and  drops  of  oil  assailed  the  lucky  near-by. 
Half  raised  one  foot,  half  the  other,  like  marching 
lodges  or  school  children.  Their  captain,  hoisting  up 
a  flag,  went  on  unconscious  of  them. 

There  stood  out  fore  and  aft  the  good,  four-sided 
signs  which  handed  you  new  lies  for  old.  Phrases 
jumped    out   in    their    clear    black   paint,   whatever 


240  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

character  the  sentiments  might  lack,  and  Barbara 
assimilated   several:    "the   new   Americanism/'   "a 

FULL  STOMACH  AND  A  LOT  LEFT,"  "we'VE  KEPT  YOU 
OUT  OF  WARS,"  "rally!  GOOD  PARTY  MEN,"  "VOTE 
FOR  THE  PARTY  THAT  FILLS  YOUR  POCKETS."   As 

Barbara  saw  and  read  the  last,  a  man  clear  down  in 
the  crowd  said  something  shocking  to  a  neighbor. 
Barbara,  of  course,  did  not  hear  "Oh,  hell!  Whose 
pockets?"  It  was  a  very  good  parade,  and  ordinarily 
the  Crier  would  have  given  it  three  columns,  front,  in 
her  next  regular  edition. 

Since  all  things  terminate  the  band  blew  past,  the 
Young  Men's  Club  deployed,  and  "New  Americanism" 
got  lost  in  the  crowd.  The  marchers  scattered  to  good 
applauding  points. 

All  was  as  appointed.  A  neighboring  preacher  fur- 
nished the  prelude,  since  it  is  policy  for  politics  to  be 
forgiven  in  advance. 

The  Reverend  Isaac  Sykes,  unfearing,  was  next  to 
forge  ahead.  His  part  in  rallies  was  predestined. 
He  presented  "Flag  of  the  Free,"  entirely  alone.  He 
did  it  for  all  parties,  or  with  less  excuse.  He  took 
liberties  with  words,  began  quite  high,  discovered  it  too 
late,  but  was  a  bitter-ender.  One  forgot  the  shoulders 
in  one's  face,  the  elbows  in  one's  side,  the  feet  upon 
one's  foot.  Some  at  his  invitation  participated  in  the 
closing  chorus.  Mr.  Sykes,  seated  and  winded,  hugged 
triumph  to  his  reverend  chest. 

The  Crier  had  announced  that  day  that  Mr. 
Hermann  Vogel  would  instruct  them  on  "The  New 
Americanism."  He  coined  it  himself  and  "Good  strong 
stuff"  it  was,  as  Mr.  Gates  admitted.  It  fitted  well 
with  the  flag-waving  and  log-rolling, 

Vogel,  nicely  introduced,  began  his  text.  His  text 
was  Gates,  but  that  the  crowd  would  never  know  until 


THE    MARKET-PLACE  241 

the  proper  time,  when  waves  of  great  enthusiasm 
would  automatically  arise,  engulf:  the  flood  of  which 
would  cause  his  subject  to  himself  exude  a'  few  en- 
tirely impromptu  and  carefully  chalked  out  remarks; 
the  ebb  of  which  would  aid  materially  in  floating  votes 
next  day. 

"My  friends!"  began  Mr.  Vogel.  What  he  actually 
said  sounded  like  "Mine  Vriens,"  but  we  translate  for 
those  who  take  their  English  straight. 

"My  friends,  this  is  a  great  day.  For  long  I  have 
lived  and  hoped  that  I  would  see  a  day  like  this,  a 
day  the  workingman  can  cast  his  vote  just  right,  can 
cast  his  vote  and  feel  it  is  not  wasted." 

The  crowd  seemed  friendly,  though  a  lone  voice 
offered,  "Whatdye  mean,  'wasted?'  "  As  he  paused  a 
spatting  of  hands  arose,  and  it  was  most  remarkable 
that  the  applause  sprang  chiefly  from  appointed 
corners,  or  was  nearly  always  lighted  by  a  "Young 
Men's"  torch. 

The  speaker  was  in  an  amiable  mood.  It  showed 
in  the  arrogant  set  of  his  back,  and  from  the  spiny 
up-turn  of  his  thick  moustache. 

"Friends,  for  long  you  have  heard  much  talk  of  what 
the  country  is,  also  what  it  is  for.  The  leaders  you 
have  had  for  several  years  have  looked  at  it  one  way, 
I  and  very  many  of  you,  my  friends,  another.  When 
they  went  into  office  all  things  were  not  as  they  are 
now.  If  you  then  voted  for  them  you  could  not  know, 
of  that  I  am  certain  quite,  what  the  future  would  bring 
or  they  would  do,  those  ones  who  think  they  must  think 
for  you. 

"They  like  to  tell  you  just  what  you  would  have, 
would  need,  those  men.  They  say  they  protect  you, 
that  they  must  'interpret'  this,  and  that,  for  you.  They 
say  they  will  protect  you.    Do  they,  always?    They 


242  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

protect  you  here,  perhaps,  and  they  desert  you  there. 
I  would  not  criticize. 

"Yet  by  protection  —  what  do  they  mean?  Surely 
you  are  always  well  protected  here  at  home.  You  have 
all  you  could  require.  No  cause  to  spend  good  dollars, 
your  dollars!  for  things  you  have  never  needed.  You 
never  will. 

"When  I  came  a  poor  boy,  years  ago,  I  looked  to 
your  grand  Government,  your  factions,  and  I  said, 
'Which  is  the  party  which  takes  care  of  the  laboring, 
the  poor,  like  me?'  How  I  found  the  answer,  and 
where  I  found  the  answer  you  maybe  know.  Else  I 
would  not  be  here  tonight.    So. 

"This  party,  my  party,  is  not  for,  what  you  say, 
'Pacifism.'  Many  times,  no!  But  we  do  not  see 
the  urge  of  losing  many  dollars  that  you  earn  for  such 
things  as  you  will  never  need.  The  people  I  still  know, 
back  in  my  homeland,  they  love  the  people  of  America. 
They  are  very  fond  of  them.  You  —  We  1  —  need 
never  be  afraid  of  them.  They  would  only  wish  to  see 
you  the  fine  country  you  are  now,  good  friend  to  all!" 

"Yeh!     Great!     Keep  it  up,"  from  the  crowd. 

"I  thank  you,  my  friends.  I  am  an  American.  That 
is,  I  have  lived  over  here.  I  came  a  stranger  and  I 
have  grown  to  love  it,  very  much.  It  was  good  to  me, 
and  I  shall  never  go  back.  (Hand-clapping  at  desig- 
nated corners.)  It  was  a  fine  country  then,  and  it  is 
better  now.  But  we  must  make  it  better  yet.  How 
to  do,  then?" 

"Yep!    How  ye  goin'  to  do  it?" 

"We  must  be  fair  in  everything,  above  all  fair  and 
good  to  ourselves.  We  should  not  let  sympathies, 
emotions,  take  us  far  from  things  that  matter,  the  good 
material  things.  We  should  be  practical,  we  should 
not  try  this  helping  game  which  we  must  pay  for.    We 


THE    MARKET-PLACE  243 

should  do  as  our  best  citizens  wish  to  do.  You  know 
not  what  to  expect  from  many.  You  do  from  us.  We 
would  help  you.  And  you  must  help  the  men  who 
would  assist  your  brains  and  muscle  witb  much  money." 

"Once  I  have  heard,  in  this  country,  everything  it 
was  for  love  of  the  country.  It  was  only  something 
to  work  for,  maybe  something  to  fight  for.  I  do  not 
understand.  My  party  says,  men  who  are  running  for 
the  party  say:  'Love  for  the  countryman,  all  people; 
the  'New  Americanism.' 

"It  is  a  great  country,  it  is  so  great  it  will  take  care 
of  itself,  almost.  It  has,  for  many  years.  Isn't  that 
quite  good  enough?" 

"What're  you  givin'  us?"  came  from  the  crowd. 

"I  give  you  facts,  as  an  American." 

"Then  get  a  real  American!  We  don't  need 
'h)^hens,'  "  a  score  of  voices  bawled. 

"I  am  telling  you  that  when  you  will  elect  a  man 
like  the  Honorable  Gates"  —  at  this  a  chorus  of  sound 
—  cheers  or  sneers?  —  "we  will  then  all  be  taken  care 
of,  well.  You  will  not  have  to  do  more  than  you  are 
doing  now.  He  does  not  much  believe  in  the  kind  of 
military  things  some  men  are  talking.  I,  I  have  tried 
them.  They  are  terrible,  unspeakable.  He  will  work 
only  for  you,  will  always  try  to  get  you  work,  I  promise 
you." 

"And  how  about  pay?  Tell  us  that  Mr.  Vogel." 
The  men  came  crowding  forward.  The  jam  was  fear- 
ful ;  the  voices  rumbled  and  broke  like  surf  on  a  rocky 
shore. 

"I  have  only  a  little  more  that  I  can  say.  And  then 
Mr.  Gates,  he  will  tell  you  for  himself  what  the  people's 
party,  the  safe  party,  can  do  for  you.  Wait!"  —  as 
the  noise  intensified  —  "Wait,  I  have  a  little  more." 

"Waits"  were  as  well  unuttered.     They  hemmed 


244  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

around  the  platform.  Gates  was  nervous,  but  Barbara 
was  lost  in  the  scene's  melee.  Reverend  Sykes  shifted 
seats  and  added  his  voice  to  Mr.  Vogel's,  "Wait,  good 
people,  wait,    And  quiet!" 

"That's  it,  go  to  it.  Rev.,"  they  shouted  back  and 
from  the  seas  of  muttering  voices  harsh  cries,  louder 
than  all  the  rest,  were  heard. 

"Oh,  Andy!"  "Where's  Andy?"  "Get  a  flesh-and- 
blood  American."  "Give  us  a  regular  fellow!"  "Find 
the  lad  who  spouts  the  truth."  "Where's  our  favorite 
son?"  "Enough  of  this  foreign  guy."  "Way  for  the 
Boy  Orator  o'  the  Fork!"  A  breaking-up  appeared  far 
out  among  the  crowd. 

Mr.  Schwab,  who  all  the  evening  had  had  his  nose 
in  a  notebook  in  the  corner,  at  the  "press-box,"  buried 
his  face  in  his  memo  and  ended  witii  a  sob.  He  was 
covering  the  evening  for  the  Crier.    He  gave  up. 


XXXV 

"What  do  you  call  an  American?  What  does  it 
mean  to  you?" 

"Tell  me,  Mr.  Vogel,  and  you,  Holden  Gates!  You 
boys,  you  men  down  here  in  front.  And  you  —  Rev- 
erend Sykes.    I  wonder  just  how  you  could  answer. 

"I  take  a  liberty  in  asking  you.  Now  I  shall  take 
another:  I  shall  answer  for  you,  answer  as  I  think  each 
one  of  you  would  wish  to  have  his  speech  —  perhaps 
his  own  real  thoughts  —  handed  out  now  to  the  man 
in  the  crowd." 

Johnson's  heart  kept  ahead  of  his  words,  but  when 
the  current  of  his  speech  was  on  his  sentences  came 
tumbling  out  —  unasked.    Urged  on  by  Hal,  the  huge 


THE    MARKET-PLACE  246 

blacksmith  his  friend,  by  Boddfish  and  the  Fork,  large 
hands  had  cut  a  way  and  placed  him  on  the  platform. 
He  had  stood  in  the  pack,  with  the  men;  the  rest 
occurred  automatically.  His  time  was  not  self-chosen, 
but  it  was  here. 

For  one  instant  he  lost  his  wits.  Vogel  behind  was 
stamping  his  feet  on  the  floor,  Gates  muttering  to  his 
lieutenants.  Sykes  cleared  his  throat  successively  and 
rapidly;  and  out  in  front,  ah,  out  in  front  —  there  rose 
at  once  a  thousand  faces.  They  held  him  longest,  those 
faces,  dirty  and  bearded  and  rough,  brutishly  bloated 
or  horribly  sharp,  framed  by  their  dun  old  hats,  the 
brighter  tints  and  wide-made  shoulders  of  the  woods 
uprearing  them  below. 

He  was  thinking  quickly.  After  all  it  lay  in  how  you 
saw  them:  Gates  looked  and  was  afraid;  Vogel,  despis- 
ing them,  talked  down,  attempted  flattery  and  school- 
boy reasoning.  Both  failed.  The  truth.  They  wanted 
that!  Men  gave  their  lives  in  searching.  It  was  not 
much,  but  there  were  other  things  the  market  of  the 
world  must  always  sell,  that  something  just  as  good. 

A  whisper  reached  him,  "Andrew!"  No  one  else 
presumably  had  heard  the  call.  It  was  little,  and 
enough. 

Browning,  fire-scarred  timber  and  brush  upreared 
before  his  eyes  and  in  it,  nestled  down,  was  something 
squat,  and  soiled.  It  clung  very  close  to  the  heart  of 
the  earth  and  smoke  came  from  its  mouth,  an  endless 
pall;  weird  shouts  and  muttered  curses  echoed  in  its 
ears;  the  sweat  of  labor,  and  of  Life  and  Death,  ran 
down  its  face;  a  weakened,  grub-like  stream  possessed 
its  body.  And  Andy  looked,  and  saw  there  men  and 
women.    God!    Was  that  Life?    No,  it  was  the  Fork. 

The  Truth,  did  they  want?  So  help  him,  they  should 
have  it. 


246  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

"Yes,  you  out  there,  what  do  you  call  a  real  four- 
square American?  Many  of  you  have  had  most  of 
your  life  already.  And  you,  even  you  who  cannot  clear 
your  throats  and  look  well  back  to  days  of  'sixty-one 
or  'seventy-one,  you  have  been  through  one  campaign 
of  politics  at  least  when  a  great  deal  was  talked  of  all 
this.  You  know.  If  it  were  given  me  to  pick  the  chap 
to  tell  me  what  he  is!  and  what  his  country  stands  for! 
I  should  look  straight  away  to  the  man  who  works  and 
the  fellow  who  pays." 

"Yeh,  yeh!  You're  comin'  to  it,  Johnson.  Say  on, 
Andy.     Give  us  more." 

The  crowd  had  lost  its  terrifying  faces,  was  merged 
for  him  in  one,  an  upturned  countenance  that  showed 
harsh  work  and  useless  striving,  a  face  long  buying  its 
right  to  know. 

"First,  though,  I  should  go  to  the  'pacifist.'  Custom- 
arily I  wouldn't  look  for  him  among  the  ministers. 
Sometimes  you'd  find  him  there,  but  there  are  also 
'fighting  parsons,'  and  it  always  seemed  to  me  that 
when  the  preacher  fights  an  ordinary  man  had  better 
run.  He  is  as  good  as  two  or  three,  your  minister,  for 
usually  he  knows  what  he's  about,  and  if  he  does  he's 
pretty  generally  backed  up  by  right,  which  always 
helps.    He  isn't  half-in-half. 

"No,  I  shouldn't  study  ministers  for  pacifists.  I 
should  try  among  the  men  who  never  look  ahead  and 
seldom  watch  behind.  Whether  that  is  due  to  consti- 
tutional defects,  a  little  practical  near-sightedness,  I 
never  quite  worked  out.  Maybe  you  could  help  me, 
but  we  won't  spend  much  of  your  time  or  mine,  upon 
his  sort.  It  doesn't  justify  it.  Sometimes,  or  oftener, 
they're  square  about  it.  That  makes  it  harder.  As  you 
know,  they  disbelieve  or  claim  to  in  any  sort  of  prepara- 
tion. Their  arguments  don't  often  go  with  ministers  and 


THE    MARKET-PLACE  247 

good  insurance  people.  Why  underwrite  your  life,  and 
soul,  and  house  if  you  have  got  'em  now?  Good  paci- 
fists are  consistent.  They  never  want  another  district 
school,  or  filling  up  that  muddy  road  of  yours  in  up-to- 
date  macadam.  When  he  is  honest  and  stubborn  it 
takes  a  powerful  physic  to  clean  the  vitals  of  the 
country  of  him.    But  it  will  be  done. 

"There  is  another,  though,  a  very  leech  that  saps  the 
growing  strength  and  power  of  all  of  us  from  day  to 
day.  You  found  him  in  the  Revolution.  He  was  a  Tory. 
He  lived  among  Americans,  and  in  America.  They 
sometimes  clubbed  him  on  the  head  or  used  a  charge  of 
shot.  There  is  nothing  like  fight  to  clear  the  air  and 
draw  men  very  close;  or  knock  them  out  when  they 
won't  be  persuaded. 

"Down  through  the  nation  the  Tories  run.  Some- 
times they  are  not  foes.  In  'ninety-eight,  'it  is  alleged' 
they  fed  cheap,  poisoned  food-stuffs  to  some  volunteers. 
As  in  the  days  of  Washington,  they  merely  worked 
behind. 

"Today  he  has  another  name.  Kings  have  denied 
their  contact  with  him,  as  kings  will  always  do  when 
their  small  human  tools  prove  weak  and  futile.  But  in 
this  case  the  Tory  up-to-date  is  strong  enough  to  cause 
wise  men  to  wince,  and  stop  for  thought.  Some  good 
Americans  endeavored  to  ignore  it,  but  while  they  went 
along  it  lived  and  grew.  The  first  pacifist  of  which  we 
spoke  I  shall  make  bold  call  to  call  American.  He  is  of 
us  though  not  with  us.  He  is  not  wicked;  only  weak. 
The  latter  is  most  certainly  not  an  American.  From 
any  man's  land  he  may  hail  and  to  no  man's  land  be- 
long. Leaving  one  spot  a  malcontent,  he  seeks 
another.  He  takes  its  welcome  with  contempt;  he 
eats  its  bread  and  bites  the  hand  that  offers  it.  Hail  to 
the  Hyphen! 


248  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

"Is  there  a  one  of  you  who  does  not  know  of  him? 
No !  there  is  not,  that  I  would  swear.  But  is  there  one 
of  you  who  would  confess  to  being  such,  could 
even  point  one  out?  No,  indeed,  for  the  hyphen 
works  under  the  ground.  Far  down  in  the  bowels  of 
our  Nation  he  tunnels  and  goes,  and  when  great  works 
come  crashing  down  nice  people  are  surprised.  For 
all  have  been  equal,  he  as  brave  as  the  rest.  Taking 
full  toll  of  his  equality,  he  operates  imtil  the  show- 
down comes,  seeking  meantime  what  living  things  he 
may  devour.  And  if  America  is  in  ascendancy  —  as 
may  she  always  be!  —  then  too  is  he  American.  And 
no  one  says  him  nay. 

"But  if  another  smirches  the  legends  of  our  ancestors 
he  plays  his  hand,  and  you  may  guarantee  that  he  will 
have  it  covered  well.  Have  I  made  it  plain?  Do  you 
understand?" 

"Yes!  Go  on!  Go  on!"  There  were  earnest 
shouts  from  the  crowd.  "Give  us  more!  Give  us 
more!" 

"No,  'Give  us  men!'"  cried  Johnson.  "Not  many 
years  ago  I  lost  my  father.  The  manner  of  his  going 
need  not  concern  you,  but  when  the  earth  was  dropped 
in  place  above  him  my  mother  laid  a  flag  upon  the 
grave.  It  was  not  a  large  flag,  and  it  was  not  very  ex- 
pensive. It  was  all  she  said.  'Remember  the  flag,  — 
Andy,'  she  said  to  me.  'The  father  we  know  would  have 
wished  it  so.  The  great  Father  who  makes  all  things 
possible  will  not  let  harm  touch  anyone  for  loving  it.' 

"My  father,  men,  was  not  born  an  American.  He 
died  one.  He  used  to  talk  to  me  when  I  was  a  little 
lad,  and  he  said:  'In  some  lands,  son,  it  is  every  man 
for  himself.  Over  here,  before  I  die,  I  want  to  see 
deep-written  on  the  heart  of  every  man  of  us,  "Where 
country  comes  before  —  and  man  behind ! "  '    I  should 


THE    MARKET-PLACE  249 

like  to  think  that  old  man's  wish  was  realized.  There 
have  always  been  divisions.  Honest  divisions  are  our 
life-blood,  pure  democracy.  Some  say  that  the  spirit 
of  'seventy-six  is  dead,  but  I  prefer  to  think  that  it  is 
only  resting  until  the  day  when  it  is  needed. 

"Men,  there  never  will  be  such  another  day  as  now. 
Two  hundred  years  ago  we  had  discussions,  differences, 
the  fallings-out  of  pioneers.  What  have  we  now? 
Of  men  for  defense,  dozens  for  hundreds,  hundreds 
for  thousands;  platitudes  for  pistols;  air  for  artillery; 
words  for  weapons.  Sometimes  I  get  discouraged  about 
our  country. 

"Groups  of  poverty,  of  wealth,  of  politics.  John 
Smith,  one  party,  says  to  Bill  Jones,  same  party,  'Here, 
Bill,  this  ain't  a  question  of  whether  it's  good  for  the 
country,  but  whether  it's  our  party,  and  whether  it's 
good  for  me!  Don't  you  see?  It's  plain  as  the  nose 
on  a  crocodile's  face.    Be  sensible,  Bill'.' 

"Well,  if  that  is  being  'sensible'  — I  say,  'To  hell 
with  being  sensible!'  Why  not  be  plain  American? 
I  am  afraid  of  many  things.  What  I  fear  most  is  that 
our  soul,  our  old-time  national  conscience,  will  be 
weakened,  even  killed.  Such  things  have  happened, 
and  history  runs  riot  with  grim  ruin.  Cast  out  well- 
meaning  pacifist  and  vicious  hyphen,  and  get  you  back 
to  beginnings. 

"What  is  an  American,  then?  Maybe  I  cannot  tell 
you,  either,  but  I  should  like  to  try.  A  citizen  it 
seems  to  me  is  he  who  helps  to  put  his  country  on  a 
level  with  the  kingdoms  of  the  world,  and  when  he's 
done  it  helps  to  keep  it  there;  a  man  who  gives  to 
ever5mian  his  due  in  'life,  and  liberty,  and  the  pursuit 
of  happiness.'  'Life'  to  live  in  decency  and  self-respect, 
normal,  right-thinking,  clean-breathing;  'Liberty'  to 
hear  a  private  conscience  consecrated  to  a  common 


250  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

right;  'Liberty'  to  live  cleanly,  work  humanly,  love, 
marry,  bear  children  and  raise  them  to  an  even  chance; 
'Pursuit  of  happiness'  in  a  country  and  a  world,  a 
city  and  a  town,  where  the  refreshing  hours  of  night 
are  not  irrevocably  lost  to  one  degrading  chain  of 
days. 

"A  man  who  would  live  and  let  live,  grow  rich  and 
clean  in  character  by  helping  others  to  lay  by,  building, 
constructing,  improving,  creating  —  why,  such  a  man, 
in  my  mind's-eye,  is  an  American.  This  man,  if  he 
may  live,  no  longer  thinks  (and  such  as  that  could 
never  have)  of  building  up  his  pile  of  wealth  by  pouring 
into  it  the  tattered  lives  and  toil-dulled  minds  of 
'masses';  of  lapping  up  the  freshness  and  the  life  of 
little  children;  of  piling  up  the  stories  of  his  world- 
built,  tower-high  structure  with  the  mutilated  hands 
of  men  who  fall;  of  sapping  our  vitality  by  feeding  into 
open  maws  of  factories  weak  mothers  who  have  babies 
at  their  breasts. 

"And  yet  we  have  Gateses  and  Vogels." 

A  demonstration  budded,  but  was  quenched. 

"Wives  and  new  mothers  work  to  keep  the  hound  of 
hunger  from  their  door;  women  try  to  join  purity  and 
poverty,  and  live;  the  babies  of  the  poor  die  just  three 
times  as  fast  as  those  with  golden  spoons;  school 
children  —  underfed  and  undernourished;  men,  women, 
children,  babies,  herd  in  one  room  at  night,  jammed 
beds,  fouled  air,  morals  that  shred  by  the  wayside. 
Great  buildings  reach  the  sky.  A  workman  lends  a 
life  as  cornerstone,  for  every  floor.  Factories  build 
wealth;  they  also  mold  the  weakling  child  whose 
growth  is  stopped,  whose  mind  is  checked,  whose 
shoulders  are  hunched,  whose  eyes  go  out  before  their 
time.  They  build,  and  they  consume.  ...  I  learned 
when  I  left  the  Fork.     If  labor  and  right  can't  live 


THE    MARKET-PLACE  251 

on  their  merits  — then  let  them  die.  We  cannot 
hope  unless  we  fill  the  belly  and  feed  the  mind.  It  is 
great,  that  mind,  but  it  is  hungry. 

"It  must  be,  it  must  always  be  in  a  democracy,  the 
unfettered  rule  of  the  people:  rule  of  that  people  by 
the  help  of  the  best  men  they  can  get  to  lead  them  in  the 
ways  they  need  to  go." 

There  was  real  silence.    It  was  the  first. 

"There  are  many  who  gag  at  the  flea  of  live  growth, 
but  would  and  do  willingly  swallow  the  time-eaten 
lion  of  penny-politics  and  senile  partisanship.  'The 
workingman  wants  work'  indeed,  and  he  must  have  it 
too,  full-time,  backed  by  a  living  that  is  all-American 

—  American  clean  through !  Don't  speak  of  'dues'  or 
'obligations.'    We  speak  of  rights. 

"Great  years  ago  —  and  they  were  great,  those  years 

—  some  freedmen  found  the  light.  They  were  not 
born  free,  but  they  so  became,  themselves.  And  they 
declared  that  life  without  three  things  —  'Liberty, 
Equality,  Fraternity'  —  was  not  worth  having.  They 
fought  for  it,  they  killed  for  it,  and  they  got  it!  Time 
has  gone  by,  those  men  have  passed  their  way,  but  the 
Golden  Rule  of  France  still  spirits  the  quick  and 
eases  the  dead.  Democracy  was  born  of  these. 
Congress  and  Congressmen,  I  say  to  you,  are  very 
little  links. 

"There  is  only  one  way  for  Labor  —  it  is  the  road  of 
service.  Blessings  come  slow  to  great  democracies. 
They  are  not  reaped  by  chance.  They  are  conceived 
in  noble  living,  by  sturdy,  clean-kept  minds  and  will- 
ing hands. 

"I  know  what  Gates  is  thinking,  Vogel  too.  Look 
to  yourself.  Harmony  plus  conciliation  gives  pros- 
perity. Capital  and  Labor  both  have  rights.  But 
don't  forget  the  great  third  party  — rather  first!  — 


252  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

the  Country.  Serve  that  country  now.  As  you  guide 
it,  so  will  it  guide  you.  There  have  been  mistakes, 
great,  terrible,  in  the  past.  They  were  the  first-fruits 
of  ignorance,  the  working  of  a  great  experiment.  A 
light  is  just  ahead.  By  it  we  see  the  turning  of  a 
road. 

"It  was  Washington  himself  who  said,  'Nothing  but 
harmony,  industry,  and  frugality  are  necessary  to 
make  us  a  great  and  happy  people.' 

"There  is  no  need  to  go  back  so  far,  either. 
Perhaps  some  think  that  times  have  changed? 
Listen  then  to  Theodore  Roosevelt,  great-heart,  patriot, 
statesman,  man:  'If  one  set  of  our  fellow  citizens  is 
degraded,  you  can  be  absolutely  certain  that  degrada- 
tion will  spread  more  or  less  to  all  of  us.  This  govern- 
ment is  founded  on  the  theory  that  "all  men  up"  is  a 
safer  motto  than  "some  men  down."  We  must  make 
it  good.  Let  us  pay  with  our  bodies  for  our  souls' 
desire.' 

"Throw  out  the  man  who  says  to  you,  'My  friend, 
don't  take  things  hard.  Shirk.  Be  a  tool.  The  dodger 
in  this  country  gets  the  best.'  Don't  you  believe  it! 
Nail  the  lie  fast  with  your  fist,  with  the  Heaven-sent 
doctrine  of  practical  patriotism.  Answer  him  back, 
'I've  done  my  duty.    Have  you  done  yours?' 

"When  you  have  found  your  big  man,  keep  him. 
God!  it  might  be  great  to  be  a  real  American  —  today." 

The  crowd  of  men  below  went  wild  but  it  might  have 
been  all  waste  without  an  opportunist.  It  ended 
happily,  for  Hermann  Vogel  led  them  in  the  "Star 
Spangled  Banner."  Mr.  Gates  and  Reverend  Sykes 
sang  too.  Several  on  the  platform  rose.  Later  the 
band  chimed  in,  and  shortly  the  meeting  broke  up. 

No  one  thought  to  look  for  Johnson. 

The  men  were  full  of  themselves,  and  others  would 


THE    MARKET-PLACE  253 

gladly  forget.  Johnson  himself  did  not  notice,  for  he 
had  left  them  long  ago  and  body  might  well  have 
gone  with  spirit  in  the  tonic  of  his  one  great  effort. 
He  jumped  from  the  platform  and  \i^as  making  off 
through  the  crowd  when  a  hand  plucked  at  his  coat, 
while  a  voice  said,  "Andrew,  will  you  walk  a  little  way 
with  me?' 

Barbara  had  come  to  him.  Just  how  he  could  not 
imagine,  though  he  fancied  she  must  have  followed 
very  closely,  passing  perhaps  through  the  lane  he  had 
elbowed  for  himself  and  which  became  the  crowd 
again  immediately. 

Not  answering,  he  seized  her  arm,  and  so  they  pushed 
along  until  the  mass  was  individuals,  the  individuals  a 
scattering.  They  reached  the  edge  of  the  town,  where 
there  was  nothing  but  the  evening.  He  released  her 
arm  as  she  moved  slightly,  and  had  probably  forgotten 
that  he  held  it, 

Down  beneath,  in  the  factory  hollow,  a  whistle 
shrilled.  It  was  sharp  and  short,  and  it  reminded  you 
of  smoky  places  and  a  summons  to  get  back.  The 
hands  had  returned  to  night  work. 

The  man  and  the  girl  were  awkward.  The  initiative 
was  finally  hers. 

"Andrew,  it  was  wonderful!  Indeed,  you  took  me 
from  myself;  it  seemed  as  though  I  saw  again,  from  a 
very  long  while  of  being  blind.  How  could  you  know, 
how  did  you  think  like  that?' 

"I  couldn't,  Barbara,  at  first.  And  then  —  and  then 
—  something  spoke  in  me.  It  was  as  though  that  life, 
those  things  that  have  been  seared  in  me  from  the  be- 
ginning, called  out  aloud  for  utterance  —  and  they 
would  not  be  stilled."  His  face  held  tired  shadows,  but 
his  eyes  smiled  as  they  saw  the  girl. 

"But,  ah,  tonight  I  feel  as  though  the  great  election, 


254  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

everything,  were  mine  —  here,  waiting  to  be  taken 
by  my  hand." 

The  girl  stiffened.     "Everything?" 

"Probably  not.  Why,  though,  must  you  ask?  Such 
feelings  as  these  never  last,  you  know;  a  doubt,  a  dash 
of  water-puff!  and  they  had  gone.  Enthusiasm  —  votes 
—  they're  far  apart. 

"But  plenty  of  wakings  to  that;  a  man  should  have 
his  evening-spoils.  My  hopes  go  up  tonight,  up,  up! 
like  the  smoke  of  the  factories  down  there  —  "  it  rose 
and  swirled,  but  then,  despondent,  dark,  it  settied  in 
a  sooty  pall. 

"Yes,"  said  the  girl,  "the  smoke  does  ascend,  and 
it  is  very  light  and  airy.  It  floats  for  a  little  and  then 
it  falls,  or  night  winds  blow  it  away  like  the  stuff  that 
our  dreams  are  made  of. 

"Success  may  be  to  make  our  dreams  come  true;  but 
look  at  it  awake!  Don't  be  a  jack  o'  dreams.  Re- 
member my  tale  of  the  clambering  vine  that  never 
quite  reached  the  top,  though  when  it  had  no  opposition 
it  Was  full  of  sappy  strength.  Yes,  Andrew,  consider 
the  vine."  She  was  laughing  now;  it  was  a  relief.  "Are 
you  looking  over  the  top  of  the  wall?" 

"Oh,  I  have  not  done  with  climbing,  and  I  am  full 
of  courage  yet.    Probably,  though,  it  is  vine-like." 

They  walked  again,  and  this  time  toward  the  town. 
Smoke  choked  the  hollow,  the  lights  in  the  mills  were 
faint  and  blurred. 

"But  you,  you,  Barbara!  What  must  I  think? 
You  know,  the  last  few  weeks  .  .  ." 

"Have  been  pleasantly  lonely  for  me,  my  dear, 
though  probably  busy  for  you." 

"Now  surely  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  1  know  that  much  has  happened.  'How  has  it 
affected  me?'    Often  I've  thought:  that  evening,  the 


THE    MARKET-PLACE  255 

days  since  then,  the  times  I've  seen  you  and  received  a 
little  nod.  I'd  be  ashamed  to  say  I've  missed  the 
little  lamp  that  used  to  wink  at  me  from  above  the 
office  when  you  were  deep  in  reading  law  —  but  I 
have!" 

"We've  made  mistakes,  I  guess,"  went  on  the  man 
dispiritedly,  "but  the  only  questionings  I've  had  have 
been  of  me,  myself.  How  could  you  really  care  for  me, 
what  can  I  offer  you?" 

"Now  surely  I  need  not  tell  you  again,"  replied  the 
girl  —  and  straightway  did  a  very  human  thing.  Bar- 
bara Gates,  offspring  of  wealth,  fashionable  scion  of 
repressive  schools,  quietly  gave  and  received  a  kiss. 
But  I  do  not  judge  that  anyone  saw. 

"My  dearest!"  he  whispered,  "an  election  is  one 
trick  I  do  not  need,  nor  even  want  —  with  you." 

"But  I  should  much  prefer  you  to  have  both"  —  she 
was  a  woman,  after  all  —  "though  you  will  always  be 
desirable  to  me.  Yet  even  in  my  own  heart's  heart 
I  cannot  sometimes  understand.  It  is  very  plain  to  me 
here;  but  after,  when  you  have  gone?  I  never  want 
you  to  be  too  certain,  for  that  is  very  bad.  It  is  all  a 
great  experiment,  an  older  one  than  I,  I  think. 

"But  what  am  I  saying?  /  can  accept  you,  now,  but 
maybe  I  am  mean  enough  to  hesitate  when  I  must 
give  all  of  myself." 

"And  you  were  once  so  sure,"  he  said  reproachfully. 
"I  counted  on  you.  I  have  worked  for  you.  The  rest 
—  is  nothing.  I  have  been  a  great  fool,  I  expect.  I 
feel  I  am  back  at  beginnings." 

They  were  home.    He  did  not  hurry. 

"No,  don't,  please  don't  stay!  I  am  so  tired.  You 
must  remember  that  these  days  are  coming  at  me  from 
so  many  angles.  You  and  father,  I  fear,  are  hopeless. 
I  have  never  dared  speak  —  of  us." 


256  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

"Darling,  just  wish  me  luck  tomorrow.  Then  I 
shall  certainly  know  and  believe."  The  man  was 
speaking. 

"No,  I  dare  not  add  anything  now,  I  canH"  The 
girl  turned  to  him  quickly.  "But  take  that,  sir,  for 
your  persistence."    Her  lips  touched  his  cheek. 

A  whisper  reached  him  from  the  door,  "Tomorrow 
night,  come.  I  will  try  to  make  you  happy.  And  — 
good  luck!" 

He  was  alone. 

Returning  to  a  world  of  men  and  things,  he  passed  by 
crowds  of  patient  revellers,  glad,  spirited,  unreckon- 
ing  and  careless  of  the  morning's  headaches.  Few 
recognized  him.  He  went  upstairs  to  his  room,  at 
Dave's.  It  was  dark,  quiet  and  lonesome.  He  im- 
dressed  without  a  light. 

Black  thoughts  came  crowding  in.  Had  he  made 
a  good  speech,  or  had  he  been  more  than  an  ordinary 
fool?  how  would  the  election  go?  how  could  it,  but 
against  him?  where  were  his  friends  on  a  night-of- 
nights,  or  had  he  any?  where  were  the  men  he  had 
thought  to  help,  and  were  they  worth  it?  why  must  he 
raise  them  in  spite  of  themselves?  why  should  he  do  it 
at  all?  yes,  why?  how  much  did  this  girl  care?  if  he  won, 
should  he  have  her  too?  if  he  lost  —  ah,  if  he  lost  — 
whom  should  he  find  to  share  that?  would  she  be  the 
same  in  either  —  or,  if  he  won  or  lost,  what  right  had 
he  to  think  of  happiness  like  this,  who  had  not  even 
law-books  of  his  own,  a  poor,  hard-toiling  family  in 
the  hills  for  liabilities,  real  assets  only  in  good  strength 
and  hope  that  never  yet  had  sunk  so  far  it  could  not 
gather  for  another  spring?  What  right,  indeed?  His 
grip  was  failing.  He  muttered  a  hundred  cursing  com- 
plaints, and  nearly  all  of  himself. 

He  sighed  imconsciously,  and  the  heavy  mantle  of 


THE    MARKET-PLACE  257 

despair  fell  down  a  little  farther  on  his  shoulders.  "The 
vine  that  never  quite  reached  to  the  top"  —  yes,  that 
was  it.  He  was  a  vine,  growing,  toiling,  clambering, 
weak,  just  missing  it,  perhaps  by  inches,  but  clearly 
missing. 

In  the  dark  he  struck  out  savagely.  His  fist  fell  on 
a  little  table.  It  overturned  upon  the  floor.  So  might 
he  too  come  clattering  down,  but  by  the  gods,  he  would 
take  his  fall  and  no  man  should  be  glad  in  his  com- 
plainings. 

Fumbling  about  in  the  little  room,  he  got  to  the 
narrow  bed. 

"Oh,  God,"  he  cried,  in  all  his  loneliness  and  doubt, 
"help  me  to  be  a  man  —  for  men! " 

Sometime  he  slept.  Gates'  image  showed  above  the 
foot-board  of  his  bed;  Grubbs  joined  it  in  a  moment; 
both  grinned  sardonically,  and  from  behind  his  hump 
the  latter  reached  a  rough  pine  board  that  said  on  it 
"The  Fork."    He  made  to  strike,  Andrew  awoke. 

It  was  day. 


XXXVI 

The  day  was  not  old,  it  was  wonderfully  new.  Re- 
luctantly the  rosy  face  of  the  sun  just  showed  an  edge 
across  the  town.  Half-drunkenly  itself,  as  if  in  shame 
or  sympathy  with  all  the  rousing  celebrants,  it  came 
and  peered  uncertainly  above  the  scattered  roof-tops, 
a  line  of  rugged  sentinels  out-flung  against  the  sky. 

But  soon  it  shook  itself  of  lethargy,  with  a  waking 
smile  touched  up  the  summits  of  the  girdling  hills,  and 
finished  off  the  autumn-frosted  trees  with  gold.  It 
stalked  among  the  houses  of  the  town  and  smiled  again 


258  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

upon  the  ragged  mob  of  roofs.  It  even  found  a  bit 
of  beauty  high-up  among  the  factory  stacks. 

A  whistle  shrilled  from  the  hills,  and  Johnson  leaped 
to  the  floor.  Men,  more  men,  were  coming  from  the 
woods  and  mills  and  he  must  meet  them. 

As  he  walked  out  on  Dave's  porch,  the  first  of  the 
tatterdemalion  crew  were  shouting  and  swearing  over 
the  bridge.  The  shrill  ping-ping  of  the  lumberjack 
boot  came  up  from  the  sidewalk  flags  and  early-going 
villagers  paused  to  gape  as  the  ranks  of  the  mill-men 
and  hill-billies  swept  on  from  their  train  and  into  the 
town.  Bright  of  clothing  and  stout  of  form  they 
looked  in  the  early  light,  as  their  shouted  words  and 
loud,  strong  laugh  rang  robustly  out  on  the  cold,  damp 
air  of  November. 

On  toward  Dave's  they  came. 

"Ah,  there,  Andy!" 

"Bane  gude  day,  by  Yiminy." 

"Top  o'  the  mornin'  to  ye,  me  boy!" 

"Out  airly  to  catch  the  vote,  eh,  lad?" 

Straight  for  Johnson  they  came,  on  past  for  the  bar, 
and  then  the  opener  of  eyes  their  special  train  had 
made  them  miss.  Then  Ho!  for  bad  liquor.  A  holiday 
with  pay!  Ah,  they  must  take  good  toll.  Johnson 
almost  joined  them.  He  made  as  if  to  follow,  for  now 
his  day  was  here  and  he  was  weak.  The  unsolved 
questions  of  the  night  before  came  hammering  again, 
tlie  usquebaugh  they  poured  at  Dave's  was  strong. 

But  his  time  had  come  and  slipped  away,  for  Grubbs 
slid  in  another  door,  cried  in  his  hunchback's  shrill, 
cracked  voice,  "Gk)od  morning,  boys,  drink  up  —  the 
first's  on  me!  No  strings  tied  to  it,  either,"  and  each 
one  did  so  gladly.  The  devil  looked  good  if  he  stood 
for  a  drink  today.  The  room  was  full,  the  stench  of 
drawing  pipes  and  raw,  new-opened  whiskey  came  out- 


THE    MARKET-PLACE  259 

side.  It  was  fairly  sickening,  and  Johnson  left  for 
breakfast.    He  would  gain  a  little  time. 

"Come  in,  me  boy,  come  in,  and  get  a  bit.  'Twill 
do  you  good.  You  look  played  out,  you  do  indeed. 
Just  wait  till  we  get  a  few  dishes  slicked  up,  and  we'll 
bring  yer  meal  right  in."  Dave  was  professionally  hos- 
pitable, and  Andrew  dropped  down  gladly  at  a  place. 

Dave  went  and  came  back. 

"I  s'pose  now,  Mr.  Johnson,  you  won't  stay  with  us 
a  great  spell  longer?  Try  them  potatoes,  fresh  het 
up.  After  that  speech  last  night  don't  see  how  this  old 
place  can  hardly  hold  ye.  Crackee!  it  was  fine.  Tell 
ye,  if  I  could  spout  like  that  you  bet  I  wouldn't  be 
holdin'  down  no  thankless  sittyation.  Here,  nail  on  this 
ham.  Gave  it  to  'em,  didn't  ye,  yes  sirree.  Bob !  Ought 
to  put  you  right  at  the  head  of  the  pile.  How  about  it? 
Try  a  little  corn  bread  with  N.O.  'lasses.  How  about 
it,  heh?" 

"Dave,  I'm  not  so  sure.  I've  sent  my  case  to  the 
jury,  and  now  it's  up  to  them." 

He  ate  a  mouthful,  and  a  man  burst  in  the  door  from 
the  saloon.  It  was  Cosmo  Thorn,  with  Boddfish  follow- 
ing.   The  two  made  straight  for  him. 

"Come,  out  o'  here,  Andy!  Get  out  and  to  work. 
Just  show  yourself.  Think  everything's  done?  Not  by 
a  long  shot.  Boys  all  in  town  and  now's  our  time.  Our 
work's  cut  out." 

"Yes,  come  along,  Johnson,"  put  in  Bill,  "today's  the 
day;  another  like  it  ain't  so  near.  Grub's  all  right  — 
any  old  time  —  but  you've  had  all  you  need." 

Johnson  was  ready.    No  breakfast  tempted  him. 

Partly  to  keep  them  clear  of  mischief  but  mainly  to 
lay  hold  of  what  all  politicians  need,  more  time,  Gates 
and  Vogel  had  got  up  sports  and  current  refreshment 
to  last  well  through  the  morning,  "to  give  the  boys  a 


260  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

day,"  as  Hermann  put  it.  Johnson  in  the  meanwhile 
held  a  conference;  said  no  to  a  proposal  to  spread  some 
old  misdeeds  of  Gates.  They  claimed  they'd  just  foimd 
out  the  Admirable's  wife  —  lost  sight  of,  starving,  in 
a  little  hut-like  place  down  by  Mill  Hollow.  A  Simday 
long  ago  came  back  to  Johnson,  a  woman,  broken,  old, 
had  thanked  him  for  some  yarn  dropped  in  her  hand. 
No!  Their  mission  had  never  been  nearer  fulfillment, 
and  he  would  make  the  try-out  with  a  clean,  straight 
deck. 

His  lieutenants  took  his  hand  and  wished  him  luck, 
and  all  went  into  the  warming  day  to  join  the  men  in 
some  of  their  carousing  and  loud,  gay  let-down  from 
the  years  of  being  creatures. 

Gad,  it  was  fine,  and  "I'll  go  you  a  new  race,  Sandy," 
or  "Try  me  another  tug,  Bill,"  and  "Go  on,  you  son  of 
a  woodpecker,  you!    I'll  beat  you  good  this  time." 

There  were  strong  cigars  without  a  name  and  red- 
hot,  "burny"  liquor  that  put  good  spirits  in  them  all  — 
these  from  the  opposition.  Yet  when  there  was  a  point 
to  be  adjudged  it  was,  "Well,  how  about  it,  Andy?" 
or  "Give  us  a  lift  with  this,  eh,  boy?"  The  heart  of 
the  man  warmed  with  his  day. 

Toward  ten  o'clock,  when  to  Johnson  indeed  it 
seemed  far  more  like  evening,  there  came  toward  the 
rousing  group  of  eager  woodsmen  a  curious,  pathetic 
figure.  Silence  filled  him  instead  of  shouts,  his  face 
was  gray  beside  their  animal  red. 

A  few  cried,  "Hi,  old  boy,  which  way're  you 
headin'?"  and  "What's  on  today,  old  man?" 

The  man  or  well-worn  "boy"  went  on  as  calmly  with 
his  mission,  which  was  selling  papers,  more  explicitly 
the  Crier.    In  a  used-up  voice  he  answered  back, 

"Here  y'are,  here  y'are,  today's  news,  all  of  it,  right 
fresh  from  the  press.     Five  a  copy.     Five  a  copy. 


THE    MARKET-PLACE  261 

Here  y'are.  All  'bout  the  'lection.  Mr.  Gates  makes 
speech."    Schwab  vouched  for  Gates. 

A  few  bought  copies.  Not  many  "bothered"  about 
news,  and  Andrew  thought  of  poor  Bill  Boddfish's  ex- 
cuse whenever  he  received  a  letter  —  he  never  had  his 
glasses.  Regarding  him  with  sadness,  Andrew 
beckoned  for  the  newsboy  and  his  wares.  The  old  chap 
answered  eagerly.  Grubbs  gave  him  a  teasing  slap,  and 
the  vagrant  turned  like  a  dog. 

He  came  toward  Johnson.  A  string  for  tie,  gaping 
collar,  coat  of  one  kind,  pants  of  another,  of  vests 
none  —  and  it  was  cold.  The  hands  that  guarded  the 
Criers  were  old  and  broken  with  work.  Yet  a  mashed 
black  hat  was  even  cocked  a  little  to  one  side  and  when 
he  came  a  trifle  nearer  Andrew  looked  again,  and  saw 
the  Admirable. 

"Why,  dear  old  Admirable,  what  are  you  doing  here? 
After  that  night  at  the  Fork,  the  others  told  me  of  it, 
recollect?  you  disappeared.  They  wondered  where  you 
went,  and  I  have  tried  to  find  you,  till  last  night,  and 
then  .  .  ." 

"There,  there,  don't  say  no  more.  I  went  away.  I 
couldn't  stay.  I  never  thought  to  come  back  here,  but 
today,  today  .  .  ."  His  voice  trailed  off.  "Today,  I 
knew  it  would  happen  and  I  wanted  to  be  in  at  the 
end." 

Johnson  took  a  paper  from  him. 

"I  always  sort  o'  hoped  I'd  see  the  ending  of  it  all, 
a  happy  ending,  mebbe,  but  any  sort  would  be  relief  I 
guess.  I  shan't  be  here  again,  but  here  I  am  today, 
a-cryin'  papers  with  a  speech  about  that  man,  that 
man  of  all. 

"I'll  have  to  be  gettin'  along.  Got  lots  of  'em  to  sell. 
No,  won't  take  nothin'  from  you.  Much  obliged. 
Don't  bother  readin'  it.     Good  luck  to  you.    Wish  / 


262  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

could  bring  it  to  you,  boy.  Never  seemed  to  hand  much 
happiness  to  no  one,  though.  But  t'won't  last  long,  I 
guess.    Good  luck.    Good-bye." 

Johnson's  eyes  filled  as  the  old  man  took  himself 
away.  He  glanced  at  the  paper  limp  in  his  hand: 
"Vogel's  great  effort;  A.  Johnson  Also  Speaks." 
Bitterness,  unfairness  filled  him.  So  that  was  what 
the  Admirable  meant  —  "Don't  bother  reading  it." 

He  heard  a  cry  across  the  square,  "Rogers,  Rogers! 
Here,  come  quick!"  They  didn't  know  him !  Far  off, 
he  saw  the  old  man  turn  and  shuffle  toward  the  Crier 
office,  whence  wildly  waving  arms  bade  him  still  faster. 

The  figure  waved  some  inky  sheets,  and  Johnson 
saw  the  old  chap  take  them.  The  man  that  gave  them 
said  a  few  words  quickly,  disappeared.  Crimmins 
paused  before  he  turned  again,  and  Andrew  saw  him 
stooped  above  the  page.    Then  suddenly  he  came. 

"Extry!"  he  called,  "Extry!  All  'bout  the  big 
woods  fire.  Starts  in  the  timber.  Slab  Fork  goin'. 
Gates'  town  right  in  the  flames!" 

Faster,  and  faster,  ran  the  old  man.  His  shuffle 
became  a  trot,  one  ludicrously  queer  had  any  noticed, 
and  then  a  panting  run.  Straight  for  Andrew  he  came, 
and  when  he  almost  reached  his  side  he  shouted  out, 

"The  fire,  the  fire!  Gates'  mill  burns  up.  The 
Fork  is  gone!"  and  fell  down  in  the  mess  of  all  his 
papers. 

Men  pushed  him  roughly  to  one  side  and  set  to 
grabbing  for  the  little  inky  sheets.  When  Thorn  and 
Andrew  raised  the  vendor  he  was  quiet. 

Someone  said,  "The  old  man's  gone,  I  guess." 

Thorn  looked  again.  "There's  something  sort  of 
smiling-like  about  his  face."  Perhaps  he  had  seen  the 
end  of  the  race. 

A  whistle  sounded,  fiercely,  shrilly.  ' 


THE    MARKET-PLACE  263 

A  runner  screamed,  "Relief  train!  Startin'  for  the 
Fork!" 

At  once  there  was  a  great,  mad  rush  and  on  the 
square  where  there  had  been  some  cheering,  laughing 
men,  there  was  just  one,  who  bore  the  news,  with  Thorn 
and  Andrew.  Of  all  the  rest  —  a  scattered  piece  of 
food,  an  empty  or  a  half-filled  bottle  —  that  was  all. 

Holden  Gates'  car  tore  by.  And  when  the  others 
reached  the  Station  they  found  outside  the  man  who 
owned  their  homes,  their  work,  themselves. 

He  cried  out,  "No,  by  God!  Not  till  you've  voted. 
Back,  get  back  to  the  polls,  every  man-jack  of  you. 
The  Fork  can  burn.  If  I  win  there'll  be  another.  And 
if  you  don't  go  back,  no  one  leaves  here,  at  all." 

The  thought  of  several  scores  of  fire-ringed  women, 
children  too,  rose  up  to  mock  the  men,  a  top-fire  burst- 
ing from  the  forest,  its  sparks  and  flaming  bark  a-whirl- 
ing  with  the  wind  and  settling  in  the  mill  dust,  to  start 
again  in  fierce,  hot  life  on  top  the  pine-roofed  shacks. 
A  roar  as  of  the  fire  itself  was  wrung  from  the  tortured 
men,  and  there  were  some  who  clambered  up  the  car 
that  tagged  a  smoking  engine. 

But  others  pushed  them  off  again,  and  Gates 
screamed  out  once  more. 

"We're  losing  time.  Get  back  —  get  back.  You  do 
your  part  and  I'll  do  mine.    You  know  I  will!" 

There  was  no  other  way.  As  if  by  plan  gun  muzzles 
bore  out  here  and  there  aboard  the  red  caboose.  Back 
to  the  town  they  tore;  the  board  bridge  thundered 
to  their  hob-nailed  tread.  On,  into  the  polls,  where 
ballots  already  were  "fixed,"  and  a  dozen  blue-coat 
specials  who  swore  by  the  law  and  cursed  at  the  men 
kept  them  coming  and  going  through  each  of  the  four 
small  booths.  Little  hurrying  did  they  need,  but 
Grubbs  was  there  to  help,  Grubbs  and  his  "officers." 
Few  had  voted  before. 


264  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

It  went  through  fiercely,  though  Andrew  then,  and 
Thorn,  knew  little  of  it  for  they  had  stayed  by 
Crimmins.  When  Boddfish,  Witzke  and  their  allies 
tried  to  enter,  they  were  simply  shoved  aside,  the  doors 
kept  clear  for  voters  not  well  known  or  better  liked. 
Indignant,  wild  as  any,  they  would  despite  have  fought 
a  way  inside  but  Maugan  said,  "Repeaters!"  His 
officers  did  their  best.  Crazed  by  it  all,  men  fled  again 
to  the  station. 

As  Thorn  and  Johnson,  forgetting  polls  and  think- 
ing of  their  Fork,  at  last  got  to  the  railroad,  the  logger's 
smoke  was  left.  The  train  tore  away  in  a  sooty  trail, 
and  left  them  whistled  shrieks  that  sounded  bleakly. 

"Too  late!" 

Board  shanties,  what  were  they?  Not  homes. 
Gates'  town?  A  prison  place.  Election  days?  Were 
nothing.  They  saw  up  there  the  slab-walled  shacks 
that  held  a  mother  and  a  brother,  for  Thorn  his  wife 
and  children.    A  sob  rose  in  their  throats. 

Together  they  went  toward  town.  A  breath  of 
smoke,  pine-laden,  pungent,  assailed  them  at  the 
bridge;  a  wisp  of  it  brushed  past  their  faces,  farther  on. 


XXXVII 

Gates'  special  never  reached  the  Fork,  not  quite. 

Perhaps  a  half-mile  from  the  clapboard  depot  was 
the  long  plank  span,  on  either  side  of  it  and  all  about, 
the  woods.  Some  time  before  the  news  reached  Maple- 
ton,  the  forest  fire  had  ringed  the  town  itself,  had 
jumped  and  crawled  and  swept  beyond  the  Moosehead, 
down  through  the  brushwood  and  culls  that  lined  the 
narrow-gauge  toward  town. 


THE    MARKET-PLACE  265 

From  burning  brush  to  wooden  bridge  was  but  a 
little  leap  for  darting  fire-tongues  on  this  cool  and  very 
dry  fall  morning.  They  caught  a  hold;  they  ate  and 
burned  a  space ;  and  then  went  out. 

The  train  shrieked  along,  a  bit  slowly  up-grade,  then 
gained  in  speed  as  it  traversed  the  high  plateau  which 
held  the  Fork.  The  bridge  settled  a  little  in  its  place, 
and  groaned,  as  though  perhaps  its  twenty  years  of 
uncomplaining  toil  had  left  it  tired.  The  bridge  itself 
had  never  had  much  care;  it  too  had  got  merely  its 
living;  it  was  weak. 

Those  on  the  train  filled  their  lungs  with  acrid  smoke 
as  all  cried  out  —  "The  town!" 

It  was  in  sight.  Even  Holden  Gates  held  his  own 
head  higher  and  stiffened  up  his  body,  as  if  with  fresh 
determination. 

The  straining  locomotive  reached  the  bridge,  then 
its  one  car.  The  engine  had  almost  crossed;  a  snap- 
ping; engine,  red  caboose  and  bridge  are  in  the  water. 
There  are  the  cries  of  men,  the  hiss  of  steam,  a  great 
explosion.    That  is  all. 

Johnson,  left  by  the  train,  had  tried  in  agony  to 
reach  the  Fork;  was  blocked  by  walls  of  fire.  At  last 
one  man  got  through.  His  news  returned  to  Johnson, 
in  the  town. 

He  pressed  a  hand  against  his  forehead.  His 
mother  had  been  spared,  and  brother.  But  Gates?  It 
could  not  be!  It  all  seemed  so  incredible  in  the  warm- 
ing sunshine  of  late-afternoon.  He  thought  of  Barbara. 
Now  he  would  go  to  her. 

Half-dazed,  he  passed  up  State  Street,  turned  at  the 
short  flag  walk,  ascended  the  steps  to  the  house  of 
Gates.  Barbara  was  at  the  door,  with  wet  eyes  and 
hands  that  reached  to  him.  They  entered  her  home 
together. 


LAST   WORD 

AND  it  came  to  pass  within  weeks  that  the  im- 
possible was  once  more  done,  that  Andrew 
Johnson  was  the  elected  of  his  fellows  for  that 
odd  job  in  Washington;  and  that  sometime  earlier  he 
was  also  chosen  of  the  one  woman. 

Gates'  election  had  been  written  down  that  day, 
but  his  name  was  recorded  in  the  Book  somewhere 
above  or  beyond  before  it  might  have  been  inscribed  in 
halls  of  Congress.  So  it  fell  out  that  there  came  a 
special  p)oll,  when  Johnson's  opposition  was  well-buried 
beneath  a  heavy  snow  of  honest  balloting.  This  time 
we  like  to  think  the  best  man  won,  though  Mr.  Jenny 
also  ran. 

Johnson,  after  all,  was  a  queerly  quixotic  sort. 
He  entered  Congress  while  war  began,  and  left  before 
war  was  investigated.  He  refused  another  term  when 
his  own  two  years  of  able  service  there  had  closed,  and 
why?    Because  he  had  real  work  at  home. 

He  had  his  problems,  certainly.  Soon  after  the 
fire,  plans  had  been  laid  for  bringing  its  survivors  down 
to  Mapleton,  and  closing  up  for  all  good  time  their 
shambles  there.  After  his  marriage  Johnson  was  made 
free  to  act  for  Barbara  and  Mrs.  Gates,  the  former 
being  enthusiastically  pro  and  the  latter  only  negatively 
con.  There  was  of  course  some  opposition  to  anything 
that  might  be  radical,  yet  Johnson  worked  his  way. 

Those  dwellers  who  had  escaped  —  chiefly  by  virtue 
of   their   quick   immersion   in    the   log-pond  —  were 

266 


LAST   WORD  267 

fetched  to  town.  The  timber  land  was  well-nigh  cut 
at  any  rate,  and  there  was  no  reason  to  rebuild. 
Insurance  covered  everything  but  people,  and  though 
Gates  had  had  partners,  in  time  quite  everyone  was 
satisfied.  Strangely,  the  fact  at  length  came  out  that 
this  vast  blaze  was  the  unaided  work  of  one  of  the 
least  of  them,  just  "Red-eye  Ed."  It  was  the  one  big 
thing  he  ever  did.    It  was  also  the  last  spree. 

Business  was  very  good  —  it  always  is  if  you  take 
it  right  —  and  by  some  careful  human  engineering 
these  folk  of  the  Fork  were  recast.  The  men  were 
given  factory  jobs  that  paid  a  wage  their  families 
lived  on  —  well.  Their  wives,  allowed  a  respite  from 
demands  of  industry,  made  homes  in  bona  fide  houses. 
The  children  went  to  school.  Rehoused,  reclad  and 
reemployed,  reborn  and  recreated,  Andrew's  own  at 
last  could  live. 

Little,  cooperative  movements  were  launched  as  they 
were  able.  No  one  slaved  for  Johnson;  all  worked 
with  him.  No  man  was  master.  He  met  them  not 
half-way,  but  all  of  it.  He  failed  who  could;  and  when 
he  could,  failed  to  starve.  Workhouse  and  poor- 
house  did  badly,  but  the  house  of  man  was  strong. 

Hearts  leaped  again,  bodies  filled  out,  long-dormant 
minds  awoke.  The  under  dog  was  fed,  and  he  did  not 
even  have  to  beg.  Others  of  Mapleton  were  made  to 
follow  in  the  path  of  Andrew  Johnson  and  his  profit- 
sharing  partners.  Perhaps,  in  time,  no  man  could  find 
a  twelve-hour  job.  Spring  came  again  in  bursts  of  song, 
summer  drowsed  by  on  its  contented  way,  and  winter 
raised  a  frosty  claw.  But  men  were  men;  and  life  had 
found  again  its  appetite. 

Yet  after  all,  he  had  but  helped  one  man  to  compre- 
hend another.  He  carved  no  model  town  nor  city.  He 
only  blazed  a  way  —  out  of  fetidness,  mto  light.    He 


268  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

was  yoimg  and  he  made  mistakes;  but  they  were  not 
like  Gates'. 

So  in  that  time  and  single  place  there  is  worked  out  a 
little  better  average,  and  one  or  more  have  come  to  see 
how  their  brother  ninety-and-nine  had  fared.  In  all 
has  Johnson  enjoyed  —  as  it  is  only  fair  to  add  —  the 
constant  sympathy  and  actual  support  of  Barbara. 
Her  feeling,  we  know,  has  been  partly  atonement. 

Thus  have  one  man  and  a  woman  crossed  their 
morass  of  humanity.  They  have  tried  an  experiment 
and  it  pays  —  in  men  and  women,  children,  life,  and 
^ven  dollars. 

Andrew  and  Barbara  have  found  their  road.  She 
grew  in  strength  and  love  and  understanding,  and  the 
poor  beginnings  were  washed  out  by  the  kindly  hand 
of  Him  who  cannot  love  the  sparrow  less  because,  per- 
haps, he  loves  his  human  children  more.  Andrew  was 
offered  much,  has  taken  little,  and  is  living  his  life  in 
serving.  He  remembers  that  while  charity  must  hold 
a  bitter  taste,  the  free-will  offering  of  the  warm  heart, 
the  fair  mind  and  friendly  hand  are  not  unappreciated 
by  what  they  reach  and  touch.  Yet  even  if  they  were? 
He  has  travelled  far,  and  he  has  felt  along  drab 
journeyings  the  first  faint  breath  of  winds  to  come. 

Mrs.  Gates  was  not  long  for  her  children.  She 
died,  mayhap  of  a  broken  heart.  Her  world  was 
overturned  and  she  could  not  embrace  the  ruin. 
Though  gone  she  still  remains  to  Mapleton,  one  notes, 
in  church  memorials  of  pink  stained-glass,  where 
faults  are  ne'er  existent  and  virtues  ever  fair.  And 
speaking  of  Emma  Gates  —  not  to  forget  —  old 
Crimmins  and  his  one-time  wife  have  decent  burial, 
though  separate. 

Mrs.  Johnson  lived  along  for  a  time,  happily.  For 
the  most  part  she  rested.    She  had  George  and  also 


LAST    WORD  269 

certain  grandchildren.    George  had  a  good  deal  made 
up  to  him,  and  is  not  disappointing. 

Should  you  ask  for  old  Vogel  you  would  not  find  him; 
he  may  have  gained  a  shore  where  there  is  only  one 
allegiance.  Karl  has  become  in  course  of  years  the 
model  of  a  small-place  lawyer.  He  sometimes  speaks 
"for  the  defense,"  occasionally  wins,  retails  a  Uttle 
insurance,  and  was  wived  with  a  good,  plain  woman 
who  was  handy  with  a  needle,  but  authoritative.  If 
not  too  happily,  they  at  the  least  live  fairly  usefully. 

There  are  not  so  many  more  you  will  remember. 
Mr.  Bodeheaver  should  have  died  a-laughing  at  his 
own  imcommon  jokes;  and  that  sterling  fellow  Busby? 
One  day  a  greater  mass  of  papers  was  seen  atop  his 
desk,  and  when  they  moved  the  maze,  lo!  there  was 
Busby,  with  a  bill  marked  "paid"  clenched  tightly  in 
his  hand?  Indeed,  dear  public,  it  was  nothing  of  the 
kind.  The  real  fact  is  that  one  succimibed  at  length 
to  an  extremely  commonplace  old  age,  the  other  just  the 
other  day  surrendered  to  an  excess  of  bile  from  an 
ingrowing  disposition;  which  was  not  inapropos,  after 
aU. 

Maugan  Grubbs  swung  no  elections,  any  more.  He 
was  a  fraud  and  many  published  it.  His  attachment 
to  Gates  had  been  devout,  unswerving,  but  yet  at 
length  his  votes  come  home  to  roost,  and  in  a  part-en- 
lightened commonwealth  they've  found  him  out. 

Mrs.  Schwab  and  Mrs.  Watts  outlasted  some  dozens 
of  teas,  till  in  all  good  time  they  saw  the  day  when 
neither  could  do  aught  but  converse,  and  that  hollowly. 
So  even  they  soon  went  on,  though  true  to  life's  ideals 
they  talked  to  the  pearly  last.  The  Editor  survives 
his  paper. 

Dave  too,  perhaps  preserved  in  spirit,  is  outliving 
his  hotel.    Their  town's  new-come  progressiveness  be- 


270  BROKEN    SHACKLES 

sought  another  place,  until  to  all  the  modernness  and 
prohibitions  Dave's  trade  dissolved  away  as  the  dun- 
gray  snows  of  spring;  finally  the  fated  hour  when 
even  on  dull  evenings  his  rockers  caught  and  held  no 
crowd.  Dave  retired,  on  receipts  of  forty  years  that 
had  not  been  so  bad.  We  presume  he  keeps  sweet, 
and  is  happy. 

Most  of  the  rest,  save  only  those  the  Great  Elector 
has  removed,  are  dwelling  there  today  —  except  the 
Very  Reverend  Sykes,  perchance  you  should  recall 
him,  who  lived  a  minister  and  died  a  poor  man.  He 
did  not,  as  some  have  averred,  succumb  during  one  of 
his  sermons.  It  was  just  a  gradual  attrition,  which 
occurred  at  the  home  of  his  wife.  He  perished,  where 
he  had  prayed  a  way,  in  Mapleton;  and  there  were 
several  at  his  passing. 

As  Ezra  Bodeheaver  said,  "he  would  lie  with  the 
Lord  forever." 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


MAR  2 11990 


A^" 


iilMliilli 

A     000  127  160     0 


